The Dark Professor
by Livrebel
Summary: Revealed knowledge during Tom Riddle's years abroad considerably changed the path of History, sending him back to Hogwarts five years early. Harry Potter, orphaned on Samhain 1981 on some unknown party's orders, must carve his own place in a world split by schemes and prejudices. "Good and Evil are overrated anyway." Rating might go up later.
1. Chapter 1

_Hello,_

 _Before reading the story, please allow me a few words. This story is incredibly difficult for me to write and will be developed slowly - also, next chapter might not be published quickly (like, maybe next month if I manage it). Still, I loved this idea of a life where Tom Riddle became a teacher at Hogwarts. I figured that his perfectionism would cause great changes at Hogwarts and, even if I used what could be call clichés, I hope that you will like this story just as much as I do._

 _This is only a prologue, though, to ease you into the world I created from Rowling's masterpiece. Evidently, I don't own Harry Potter._

 _In the meantime, enjoy!_

* * *

 _10:39 PM, May 15_ _th_ _, 1991, Hogwarts, Tom Riddle's rooms,_

Liquid amber glinted his in crystal glass, catching the fire's dying lights as it slowly turned to charcoal. The fireplace would have grown cold if not for the golden ball of energy suddenly thrown inside, causing the fire to roar back to life.

Tom Marvolo Riddle glared at the devouring fire, the quill in his long-fingered hand snapping as he suddenly clenched his fists – the energy ball had not been enough to quell his frustration. He had been grading essays, something that usually only took him a few hours, but he had been charged with one of his colleagues' load since said colleague had gone and got himself killed.

Quirinus Quirrell, while hardly the smartest wizard out there, had been someone Tom had considered introspective and, if not happy, tolerant of his life – having been a Ravenclaw during his formative years, there had never been any desire for adventures beside the occasional trip in the Restricted Section while Irma was busy with something else. That the man had impulsively decided to take a stroll in the Forbidden Forest _alone_ , without telling anyone and during a _full moon,_ had struck Tom as strange and unlikely for the usually cautious man. Tom still remembered how, as a student, Quirinus had shown every sign of being a coward : never protesting against the treatment of the Marauders (whom Tom had had in detention more often that he would have liked), crying in silence when mocked about his muggle mother, and all-in-all being the sort of guy to run away from a scene of violence and never tell anyone about it lest he got in trouble for it.

The fact that his body was found in the Forest, wrapped in Acromantula silk and glued to one of their webs was not all that pertinent. What _was_ interesting was that Hagrid had seen him enter the woods, but that Quirrell had not answered Hagrid's call, simply walking and never wavering. Quirinus' wand had been found in his pocket, his last spell being a locking spell. Dumbledore, the annoying fool, had called the authorities saying that _poor Professor Quirrell_ had had an _accident_ in the Forest. Of course, since he was the _Great Albus Dumbledore_ , nobody had contested his statement and Quirinus' body had been sent to his mother without further investigation.

And Tom had been left with the Muggle Studies' test grading, because the teachers relying one another for the class were _less familiar than him_ on the subject and, surely, Tom wouldn't want the poor little students' tests to suffer from their ignorance?

Tom didn't believed it for one second. Dumbledore had always been suspicious of him and that had not changed because they had become colleagues. If anything, Dumbledore had always made sure to keep Tom busy and within the school. Something that, with the schedule he had, was almost a given – if you did not count on him possessing a Time-Turner, that was, and Tom certainly did have one.

Being the Deputy Headmaster and Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor was enough to bury him in work for most of the year, so he had used his contacts in the Ministry to appropriate one, discreetly. With the added responsibilities of Muggle Studies, Tom would have to get some Pepper-Up potions (never mind using his Time-Turner, something he did not liked using, even less for _school work_ , since it had the side-effect of unsettling his magic for the time where he was doubled) only to finish grading whatever stupid project Quirinus had given his students (and beware if he found one more 'eckeltricity' or its variants in the damned papers. They were _Sixth Years,_ for Morgana's sake! They had had _three Merlin-damned years_ to learn the proper term!), never mind the end of year exams.

Tom also suspected that Dumbledore had hoped to reduce his base of influence by exposing his familiarity with muggles (not mentioning cutting in his free time, to make sure he had no opportunities to plot evil schemes or whatever). The old coot knew that Tom's allies were primarily purebloods of traditional families – or, as Dumbledore's little followers said it, the _prejudiced_ families – and had acted on the belief that they wanted nothing to do with those of 'less than pure' background.

Unfortunately for him, Tom's allies already knew of his half-blood status even if they did their very best to forget it. They didn't take it well when they were forcedly reminded that a _halfblood_ had more magical power and smarts than three generations in a pureblood family put together – and since they couldn't take care of their irritation on Tom, they turned on the person who shoved this fact under their nose : Dumbledore himself.

Tom gave his glass a longing look, before slowly turning his attention back to the essays, his eyes gleaming contemplatively. He could probably convince Severus to grade some of them for him, since, as long as he did not asked the younger man to teach anyone, he had very little to do at Hogwarts. He honestly did not know what had gone through Dumbledore's head when he had asked of Severus that he worked as Hogwarts' Potion Professor – well, _demanded_ was more like it, since the old man had the absurd notion that Severus was his spy in Tom's business, and thus thought that Severus was his to rule and control. Dumbledore had had almost convinced Horace to take an early retirement when Tom had intruded, suggesting that Horace kept the younger years since Severus ' _was such a perfectionist, surely you remember? He would sooner loose his patience with the youngsters rather than explain their mistakes to them, not mentioning that his best friend was recently murdered. You wouldn't want to overload him, so soon after this tragedy, would you Horace?'_

Dumbledore had not appreciated his input, but had been forced to accept Tom's idea when Horace had taken Tom's side. It seemed that Tom's charm always won out despite the many years of friendship the two older wizards shared. That, or mentioning Lily Evans-turned-Potter had been the decisive argument, but Tom had not particularly cared about the finer details.

And, with the way Severus had looked when Dumbledore had hinted at taking over all of the years instead of only the few outstanding students, Tom was sure it wouldn't be an issue again. Severus was a passionate genius, after all, and did not want to be anywhere near any potions ruined by amateurs – it was an insult to his sensibilities, apparently, but Dumbledore did not seemed to want to understand and could usually be found making 'comments' about the issue at least five times a year.

In Tom's mind, these things would not have been issues at all had Headmaster Dippet not retired. Armando had been a fool, but one who had had his students' best interests at heart, and not only the Gryffindors'. The way Tom had to fight to keep some of the classes available at Hogwarts – like Enchanting, Magical Societies and Healing – was simply irksome, because Dumbledore, as soon as he became Headmaster, had tried to cancel any class his Gryffindors did not excelled at (at least, that's what Tom had concluded from his observations). He, then a normal teacher, had to ask Abraxas, whose father was on the Board of Governors, to talk to his colleagues about reinstating Alchemy (which Dumbledore had managed to cancel completely before Tom got wind of it) and creating an International Affairs class, simply because he had discovered that his information about Americans and Australians were out of date. Dumbledore had refused to hear him out about additional classes, so of course Tom had needed to go over his head.

But it was _important_ shortcomings in education that he was trying to resolve, damned suspicious old man! The Australians had discovered a cave full of crystallised magic, and he had not learnt of it before two years had passed! It had been his French contact who had told him about it, in passing, as if he had expected him to know of it already. It had taken Tom two days to buy a two-way Portkey to Australia and acquire the last editions of the local professional papers, but it had only been the beginning of his ignorance and it had taken _three years_ to get up to date with everything that happened in the magical _international_ world.

It had been humiliating. And he had decided, since England's relations with their neighbouring countries were harming his information gathering network's efficacy, that he was going to change the British wizards' views about the world around them and make them aware of the discoveries made by other countries.

Also, the International Affairs professor, the overly joyous Miss Louise Allard, a French halfblood, was always more than willing to speak with him about her subject, or anything else he wanted, really. It saved him the time of going through his contacts for information he didn't know existed, even if he had to deal with Louise's more-than-obvious infatuation.

Anyway. Hogwarts' budget was more than enough to pay ten more teachers and buy the new brooms Rolanda had been asking for since 1974 – he should know, _he_ was the one compiling Hogwarts' expenses – but, for some reason, the money disappeared from Hogwarts' coffers whenever he went to Dumbledore's office with financial requests. Tom would have asked what exactly he was doing with the leftover money, but he doubted that he would have received a truthful answer. The Board of Governors certainly did not.

He suddenly banished the remaining essays to his briefcase (one with a Expansion Charm inside, where he stored his teaching-related papers – away from the administrative ones in his desk) and stretched his arms over his head, moaning softly as his joints popped. He had spent too much time without moving and, he thought as he rolled his shoulders, it wasn't as if anyone was there to witness his lapse in character. Tom Riddle was as perfect as humanly possible, after all – nobody had ever seen him yawn or wince since his early muggle years.

He stood and walked to the table next to the fireplace, swiftly picking up his glass and downing its content. The burn in his throat was familiar, making the tension in his shoulders lessen to a certain degree, and he made an appreciative sound when pleasurable shivers ran up his spine. He poured himself another glass, before sinking into the silky cushions of his favourite armchair – managing to look graceful even when slouching, something he shamelessly took advantage of during parties and other unofficial social gatherings.

" **Master... Master...** " Nagini's voice came from the door leading to outside of his chambers and he wondered when she had left. He certainly had not heard her. " **Where are you, Master?** "

" **Near the fireplace, my dear.** " He answered in Parseltongue, briefly closing his eyes and enjoying the warmth of the fire on his face. He always seemed to be cold, much like a snake, and he wondered if that too was caused by his Horcruxes or if he had always been like that. Not that it was that important, but he was curious by nature and had always been fascinated by knowledge (no matter how gruesome or amoral). " **How was your promenade?** "

He felt Nagini's thick and scaly body brush against his bare feet as she slithered in front of him, enjoying the warmth as much as he was.

" **The giant saw me in the grass, so I came back quickly.** " Nagini replied, hissing lazily as she laid her head on her tail. " **Then the light-footed female gave me a rat, and it ran, and I caught it, Master! It was fat, but fit nicely in my jaws. And I came back here.** "

" **Louise did?** " Tom wondered, slightly surprised – though he probably shouldn't be. The witch was enamoured with him, of course she would want to be on his familiar's good side. " **I see. Is there anyone else awake at this hour?** "

" **No, Master.** " The answer came after a pause, the snake already drowsy from the fire's warmth. " **The young ones learnt of your habit rather quickly this year. I rarely find any of them outside anymore.** "

Tom smiled at the petulant tone. Nagini had always enjoyed scaring people, and her long and thick body was enough to make people scream in fright whenever she appeared somewhere, despite the widely-known fact that she was not allowed to attack, so she always could find some entertainment.

Also, thanks to their wizard-familiar connection, she was able to contact him whenever she caught students out after curfew. First Years were warned about Nagini on their first night at Hogwarts, but, of course, sometimes it took more than a warning for some children (a.k.a. Gryffindors who had something to prove, because defying a Professor who owned a lethal, patrolling snake appeared to be the greatest thing to brag about) to understand. They usually calmed down after being caught a few times, not mentioning the heavy points loss and detentions that came with being found by Tom. Peer pressure was a great motivation, after all.

" **I will find you preys to chase in the corridors.** " Tom said to mollify her. " **I know you like rabbits**."

" **You better, Master.** " Nagini hissed softly. " **I am bored of your no-maiming and no-killing policy concerning the little humans. I am a huntress, a great predator... not some weak, fangless... non-venomous... loud...** "

He waited a moment, then chuckled when all he heard was Nagini's hiss-like snores. His beautiful, wonderful, fierce and _loyal_ Nagini... She was such a precious thing. Nobody but him knew that she was a cross between a Basilisk and a Speedy Python – a rare magical snake from Brazil – that he had rescued from her breeder. The man had died by his hand only a few minutes after he had tried to subdue Tom with his illegal pets, though the animals had been in poor conditions and had made poorer threats. Killing the tortured animals had been an act of mercy in Tom's books.

It had then been a simple thing to make the authorities believe that the breeder's ill-constructed Alchemical Chimera had killed him along with the rest of his menagerie. The only survivor, not that anyone knew about there being a survivor, was Nagini herself. She had been the only creature in there who had not turned insane from the experiments and mistreatment and Tom had been feeling a bit lonely at the time, so he had taken her as his familiar.

She did not have the Basilisk's deadly gaze – or he would never have brought her to Hogwarts, a _school_ – but she had its thick, magic-resistant hide, its longevity and a potent venom he had yet to discover the antidote of (if there even was one). She was also just as fast and smart as the Speedy Python and would probably never grow beyond the species' adult size. Not that he couldn't use a ritual or two to change that, but he hardly had the time to craft one, and he could not be bothered to get Dumbledore on his case by doing something 'suspicious' in the old man's eyes.

Though, really, not eating sausages last Monday morning like he usually did had caused Dumbledore to watch him like an hawk for a week, probably thinking that he was preparing some dark ritual that asked of him not to consume meat beforehand (such rituals actually existed, so Tom couldn't be _completely_ exasperated with the old man, but it was a close thing). It was probably one of the most annoying things in the world : being under Albus Dumbledore's scrutiny, especially if one had been there since they were eleven.

The paranoid Headmaster really needed a new hobby. One that did not included Tom. One that took Dumbledore off his case so he could take care of his personal affairs without the worry of being watched.

Tom sipped his drink, wondering if his second – and official – occupation was taking too much of his time, and if it was worth it. Being a teacher was something he excelled at, something he took pride in and that filled him with the strange feeling of accomplishment. His first duty, however, was to the Magical World and his fight against its deterioration because of the muggle contamination.

Part of him wanted nothing more than to go out to destroy a few muggle villages, but the more rational part said that it was unlikely that he would get away with it lest he found a way to develop an immunity to Veritaserum – Dumbledore would be the first one to throw his name as a potential villain and the old man had too much influence for Tom to get away without a single interrogation. And if, by some miracle, he managed to escape the Aurors' suspicions, he would have to deal with Dumbledore's little vigilante group. Not that he had any proof that the man had a vigilante group; he had only overheard, _multiple times_ , a few members talking about it. The Order of the Phoenix, they called it – Tom called it the Association of Self-Righteous Smoking Turkeys, or They Who Run In Circles Like Headless Chickens (it mostly depended on his mood).

But, just like Tom had no proof of Dumbledore's little band of sheep, the Headmaster had no proof of the existence of Tom's Knights, even if Tom had no illusion about the man's knowledge about them. He doubted that the man knew what exactly their goals were, though he suspected that the old coot thought that he and his Knights plotted world domination, muggle holocausts and enslavement of muggleborns – or whatever ridiculous evils the man believed were necessary for his idea of Tom's utopian Magical World. The only reason Tom was more informed about Dumbledore's group, however, was that any follower of Tom's knew better than to blabber in public about what they did in meetings, not mentioning that all of his followers knew not to look in Dumbledore's eyes lest they were Occlumency Masters – the old Headmaster wasn't one to shy away from breaching one's privacy if he believed it was for the Greater Good.

Tom swallowed the last drop of his brandy (the bottle was a birthday gift from Rabastan Lestranges, from the Lestranges Family's own production, and Tom had to admit that it was a fine brand) before throwing a disgusted look at his briefcase and its content – how he hated the additional workload, usually he would have been done with the grading _hours_ ago. An almost inaudible sigh escaped his lips as he stood and stretched, waving his wand at Nagini's form to levitate her after him. The fireplace in his study extinguished as the one in his bedroom flared to life and he lowered Nagini in front of it, though it wasn't exactly necessary. She would slither in his bed later that night, anyway.

His bedroom was charmed to stay at the same temperature no matter the weather and Tom couldn't help but appreciate the warmth as he saw the condensation in his window. He quickly took off his clothes, dropping them into the clothes hamper next to his wardrobe, and slid under the Slytherin green covers on his bed – why, of course he supported his House.

He might love Hogwarts in her wholesome, cold Scottish weather and irritating Headmaster aside, but he would always have a soft spot in his blackened heart for his ancestor's House.

 _Ah, yes – it was worth it. It was home._


	2. Chapter 2

_Hello,_

 _So, it has been a little bit more than a month. Eh. I have nothing to say._

 _WARNING : traces of abuse, Major AU (like expected, I think)_

 **This is Parseltongue.**

 _I hope you like it._

* * *

 _9:43 AM, July 21_ _st_ _, 1991, Hogwarts, Admittance Tower,_

The Writing was a ritual at Hogwarts that happened every July 21st, no matter if the letters were ready to be sent out or not. It was Tom's job to watch as Ravenclaw's Quill wrote down the names of every students that would be attending Hogwarts at the beginning of the year, and never let it be said that he did not know how to do his duties. At nine and three quarters in the morning, he was sitting at the desk available in the Tower where both the Book and the Quill were locked in, reading a newly published book on wards while he waited for the Quill to come to life and start writing. A box of envelopes could be seen next to the Book of Admittance, and nobody knew how exactly the box had never ran out – no spell or enchantment known today could last a millennium, never mind make sure there would never be a need for a replenishment of the envelopes. Even the Geminio Curse had its limits of seven hundred and forty-one copies before the magic ran out (the record was held by one Leticia Blane in 1793).

And while a part of Tom wanted nothing more that to study it, another said that he had already tainted three of the Founders' relics and that it was enough of corruption of Hogwarts' heritage from a single individual. So he restrained his desire to _know_ and simply watched the fascinating ritual whenever he could – which was every year since 1965, the year he became Deputy Headmaster. He could still remember the tightness on Dumbledore's face when he had been forced to ask, all others before him having refused the offer since not many wanted to deal with being the main contact of the parents in the school, or to deal with what the Headmaster considered below him (and Dumbledore spent more time scheming, tending to his political duties or playing the senile grandfather for his pawns, than being the school's Headmaster, so it was _a lot_ of things).

From Dumbledore's allies in the school, only Minerva would have accepted the post, but again she would agree to anything that the old man asked of her, loyal Gryffindor that she was. Luckily for Tom, Dumbledore had had to ask him before he could ask Minerva, simply because Tom had started working while Dippet was still Headmaster, three years before Dumbledore had invited Minerva to take his place as the Transfiguration Professor. Tom being Tom, he had seen the additional work and duties as a small downside to the amount of power it gave him.

Well, that, and he would admit to being a bit spiteful, enjoying the fact that Dumbledore very much did not wanted him as his Deputy. There had even been a small incident shortly after the previous Deputy Headmaster, Gaetan Bloxam, had announced his retirement, one that could have cost Tom his career had he not had a solid explanation verifiable by Truth Potion. Tom had concluded that Dumbledore had tried to get rid of him so Tom wouldn't get more power in Hogwarts, and, in retribution, he had done his best to make things even more difficult for the old man – going as far as reviewing _everything_ in Hogwarts' management and forcing Dumbledore to do the same by showing _his_ report to the Board of Governors, who had not been happy to know that there had been a mild financial drain nobody had had answers for since _1947_.

Tom was pulled from his thoughts when his skin tingled, the usual sign that the Quill had finally activated. He put down his book, distractedly noting the page, and extended his hand toward his briefcase – it sailed into his open hand, after which he laid it on the desk. He tapped the handle three times with his left index then opened the briefcase, exposing his personal stationery set, temporarily filled with Hogwarts' official parchment. He pulled out his inkwell before carefully seizing his quill (a 'modern' one made of metal and without any kind of feather, since he found traditional quills too bothersome) and laying it down at his right. It was his own routine after the Quill activated, to prepare himself while it wrote – otherwise he was doomed to wait a while, because there was from forty to sixty students per year and the Quill wrote the envelopes for _all_ the students of _all_ the years.

It meant about four hundred letters. The first years also had their acceptance letters on top of the supplies list, letters Tom also had to sign – of course, he simply copied the letter with his signature at the bottom and _then_ wrote the students' names on the parchment, or it would have been truly tedious.

As they were charmed to do so, the envelopes started sorting themselves by years – then it was Tom's job to take the few envelopes written on with light blue ink, as these were addressed to children who had no knowledge of Hogwarts. Mostly they were muggleborns, but the occasional half-blood (like Tom himself) appeared in the pile. There usually was no more than three or four muggleborn each year – and Tom's eyes darkened when he noticed that there were a bit _more_ than four envelopes with blue writings. Had some wizard gone and obliviated one-time lovers again?

No matter – this meant delaying the other letters for a few more days. Tom usually sent notice to the shops the moment after which he received the number of students that would attended Hogwarts starting September (the shopkeepers were usually happy about it, since they could prepare yearly 'kits' that parents could buy at the counter, keeping the shop from getting too full) and took three or four more days to introduce muggleborns to their culture – the following day he sent the other first years' letters, two days after that the second years', another two days after that the third years' and so on.

Ever since he'd establish this system, he'd gained the shopkeepers' admiration and respect (he even got discounts in the apothecary and the stationer shop). People who wanted to buy supplementary items were free to do so, without being pushed from all sides and changing their mind because of the long file at the counter, so shopkeepers made more money. Muggleborns' parents were also happier, since they were not hit in the face with the pureblood families' disdain if they met one another (purebloods usually made a point to walk wide around muggles, not that Tom did not understand or share their dislike, but they could at least _try_ to be subtle).

With a small grimace, Tom chased the thoughts of what would be happening in a few days and started writing the first years' names on their letters. By the time he was putting Miss Perks' letter in her envelope, then put said envelope on the 'First years, blue ink' pile, the Quill had gone still. He took the next envelope and absently note the child's name.

He started writing, then paused. He put his quill down and looked back at the envelope, thinking that he had read wrong. That he _must_ have read wrong.

He had not.

 _Mr H. Potter_

 _The Cupboard-Under-The-Stairs,_

 _4, Privet Drive,_

 _Little Whinging,_

 _Surrey_

Potter... wasn't that the name of one of the Children of Misfortune? Harry Potter, was it? If it was, then why was his envelope written in blue ink? He was a wizarding child, he had no reason not to know about the wizarding world, least of all Hogwarts.

And... _Cupboard-Under-The-Stairs_? Why in the world was a child associating a _cupboard_ with his _bedroom_? It couldn't even be an expanded cupboard, because the letter was written in _blue_. The child had no knowledge of magic or, at least, none of the likes that he would have had, had he been raised in the Magical World.

Tom took a deep breath, closed his eyes and massaged his temples. When he opened them again, he slid the letter, supplies list and train ticket inside the envelope and put said envelope in his breast pocket.

He would investigate this after he was done with the other letters. It would do no good to rush like a Gryffindor or act while still under the influence of this righteous fury. Tom _would_ do something, but he needed to calm down first. He did not wanted to get rid of his anger, just allow it to cool a bit, until it was more useful than harmful.

A sword was a better weapon when the metal was cold, and Tom's anger certainly had the cutting edge of a blade.

* * *

It was one o'clock in the afternoon when Tom stepped down the Knight Bus (having never went anywhere close to Little Whinging, there was no other way for him to travel quickly, though he had made sure to put on a glamour so nobody would remember seeing him cringe at every turns and stops the damnable bus took) and onto Magnolia Road. He did not want anyone linking a wizard to this muggle place if he ever ended up doing something of dubious morality to Harry Potter's guardians, so he had bought a map in a muggle shop and found a relatively close road he could give as a destination to the Bus' driver. With most witches and wizards' stupidity, it would be enough to break the trail. Dumbledore would be another matter, but one he could deal with at an another date.

He sighed and started walking toward Privet Drive, only to slid into a small alley that had not been on the map to remove his glamours and apply a powerful Notice-Me-Not charm on himself (glamours were like an itch on his body, so he always took the first opportunity to ditch them). He then used his wand to direct him toward Harry Potter's residence. It took him five minutes to find the correct house, but barely one second to experience an uneasiness he had not felt in years.

Every houses around him were identical. The gardens were a bit different, the cars were of various shapes and colors, but the houses were _all the same._ The only way one could distinguish a house from another was the small number next to the door. Tom shivered as he gave his surroundings another look – everything was orderly and.. _._ utterly boring. But it was still eerie enough to make him want to get away from the strange neighbourhood as soon as possible.

He shook himself out of his morbid observation and decided to make his move. He walked straight ahead, though not toward the front door – his goal was the backyard, where he would be able to slip on the property in his snake body and observe if there really was a case of child abuse. The Notice-Me-Not would break upon the Animagus transformation (nobody knew why tracking charms or some magics did not stick to the wizard when the transformation activated, but Tom hypothesised that it had to do with modifying their magical signatures – owls and house-elves couldn't find an unfamiliar transformed Animagus either), but Tom did not find it too bothersome. Very few people would approach a snake, after all, and he would be gone long before an exterminator arrived should anyone spot him.

The fluidity of his transformation was something many people envied him for, since being an Animagi was somewhat painful for beginners and for those lazy magicals who did not try to perfect themselves, and it took only two seconds before he was slithering on the ground and advancing through the hedge. The air tasted of humidity, polen, bugs and cold earth, but there was also a faint taste of sweat and blood somewhere near him, a mix of acridity and iron that his mind usually linked to the torture chambers in some of his followers' homes (they were not often in use, but the smell seemed to have sunk into the stones after centuries of torture, much to the house-elves' frantic horror).

He paused when his head emerged from the hedge, his eyes scanning his surrounding for threats or pests (there was the possibility of a muggle sleeping outside – it was a rather unusual warm sunny day).

The backyard was nothing special, just like the rest of the neighbourhood. A tree stood in the left back corner, making shades for an atrocious pink armchair, and a shed took most of the right back corner. Flower bushes, that had obviously been taken care of religiously if one considered their health and neat beds, lined the wall of the house and only left a small opening for what Tom deduced was a small winter garden. Just like the front lawn, the grass was freshly cut, the lawn mower still standing near the shed.

He went unnaturally still when he spot a moving form near the far end of the line of flowers : a child clad in what Tom would have called rags but was obviously a dirty shirt (what it truly looked like was a small stained tent, especially on the small child's back) and trousers (was that _rope_ he saw? Was it the child's _belt_?). He couldn't see any shoes or hat, despite the sun glaring down at the world, and there certainly wasn't any glove used if the taste of fresh blood in the air was anything to go by.

The child himself wasn't any better. The tanned skin Harry Potter seemed to have had inherited from his father was sickly-looking and stretched on the child's high cheekbones and bony hands. His inky black hair – that was certainly messier, and maybe even longer, than anything James Potter had ever sported – was greasy and dull. Dark circles under his wide green eyes could be seen despite his wide, cracked glasses, and his chapped lips were bleeding, just like the fingers that dug restlessly into the earth without caring about risks of infection.

Tom recalled the address on Harry Potter's letter. He then wondered if the child had ever been told about health care. He very much doubted it.

An angry hiss left his mouth as the boy wiped his brow with his dirty sleeve, causing the large shirt to slip and reveal a fading bruise around the boy's neck – a bruise shaped like a hand, as if someone had grabbed him like one would a naughty kitten.

The boy was no animal, however, and Tom could hardly find a _good_ reason as to why someone would have applied enough strength on the boy's neck to leave a mark. While Tom had never been a saint and had caused a fair share of pain to others, he had not harmed a child ever since his own childhood. Children and young teenagers were too weak and dependent on others, in his opinion, to defend themselves, and deliberately going after weaklings to affirm one's strength was not impressive. Children were to be taught and expectations of excellence were to be made, but if they became useless adults then Tom had no problems with casting them aside.

Tom would admit (at least, to himself) that he was simply disagreeable with the idea of harming a child. It was an unease that had grown in his chest since he had started to work at Hogwarts, after he had forced himself to let go of his hatred toward anything that reminded him of his youth to stay under Dumbledore's radar. He could not have taught children for years while despising the very air they breathed, at least not without cursing those he deemed too stupid or too irritating.

Vibrations from the ground pulled him away from his thoughts and he looked up in surprised interest at the child who had approached him, not too close but still close enough that Tom, had he been a normal snake, could have attacked him easily – but Harry Potter did not seemed afraid. The green eyes were wide and curious and a tiny smile was on the boy's lips, and he crouched with his hands on the ground.

" **Hello,** " the boy hissed, causing Tom to snap his head backward with a surprised hiss. " **I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle you.** "

" **How do you speak?** " Tom heard himself ask, his thoughts running madly in his head, some dismissed and others to ponder on later. He would indulge himself with a few questions, after doing what he came for. He would have preferred getting some time to think and look into things before making hypothesises, but he had very little doubts about what he would find.

It seemed that he had some family left, after all. It definitely was not from James Potter's side, so Lily Evans must've been his distant cousin. The descendant of a Squib, or a child abandoned by Light Purists at the emergence of the Slytherin Family _dark_ talent. But those thoughts were for later.

" **You mean how I speak to snakes?** " The child seemed completely uncaring that he had startled a snake, a _boomslang_ , and simply gave him a small smile. His lips were still bleeding and, now that he was closer, Tom could see the exact shape of the hand-shaped bruise. Purple fingers curled up near the junction of the neck and shoulder while a single digit, probably the thumb, pressed under the left side of the jaw – it was an unsteady grip, the act done in the aim to hurt the child more than to seize him. " **I don't know, I've always been able to, I think. But I don't see many of you often, so I didn't know about it for a while. Are you hungry? Did I interrupted your hunt?** "

Tom pondered on his situation – he had certainly not planned on something like this happening. Still, he had a job to do, and his job had to be prioritized over his personal curiosity. No matter how painful it was not to kidnap the boy this right moment to hear what the boy knew. Not much, obviously, considering how he didn't know about magic.

" **You did not interrupted my hunt.** " He finally told the boy. " **Are your guardians home, Mr Potter?** "

" **Aunt Petunia is here, but...** " Then the child blinked and his eyes grew cold, suspicion written all over his face despite a clear attempt to hide his emotions. " **How do you know my name? Who are you? Why are you here? What do you want?** "

Nostalgia washed over Tom as his mind briefly flashed back to his own introduction to the Magical World, but the similarities ended quickly. The boy seemed to have been taken by surprise, not having expected a possible threat in the form of a snake (but Tom wouldn't have had either at that age, so his behaviour could be excused) if the slight tightening around his eyes and the bitten lips were anything to go by. The child also clearly regretted his outburst, discreetly shifting his body as if he was expecting to be punished for questioning him, angling himself to be able to move quickly in case of an incoming attack.

Tom was very unimpressed. With the boy's guardians, not the child himself. But it was something he _could_ and _would_ correct. No one would look at him twice for protecting a child who shared his family talent from his guardians, even if, in the end, they were only distantly related. Dumbledore would excuse his reaction by either greed or possessiveness, though he would also pounce on the opportunity to justify looking into his business for 'possible affair with a student that resulted in pregnancy after graduation'. The old man wouldn't shy away from tainting Lily Potter's reputation if it meant bringing Tom down a tad, even if she had been the wife of one of his most faithful. Both of them were dead anyway, their friends were unavailable or blackmailed into silence, and anyone of Tom's lineage (not mentioning a _Parselmouth_ , the biggest sign of someone being beyond redemption) had to be evil, so making the boy's life more difficult wouldn't cause the great Albus Dumbledore to loose any sleep. It might even give him the satisfaction of a job well-done.

Though it might be better not to reveal their blood ties too early (he was a realist, he _knew_ that, even if they tried to keep them secret, their familial ties would eventually be shoved on the first page of every gossip magazines). Tom had many enemies, Dumbledore not the least of them, and it would take worries off Tom's shoulders if the Potter child knew how to fight before being thrown to the front lines. He would be Tom's weakness, and even some of his followers would be tempted to take advantage of that.

" **My name is Tom Riddle.** " Tom finally answered. " **I am a teacher at Hogwarts, School of Witchcraft and Wizardry – it is a school for young witches and wizards, where they are taught how to wield their inner magic. The reason I am here is because your Family has a standing invitation to this school and it is my duty to make sure the school letter reaches the students. I was surprised when your name wasn't with the other wizarding-raised students, and so I decided to show up personally.** "

The boy's eyes had grown wide and his mouth was slightly ajar (they would have to correct this later, no pupil of his was to look so... _Gryffindor_ ). " **Magic?** "

Tom nodded, even if the movement wasn't exactly natural for a snake. They could learn, but bobbing one's head was for creatures whose neck was joined to shoulders.

" **Yes. You should have been aware of it, but it seems that your guardians have failed to relay this knowledge to you.** " Tom let out an irritated hiss. " **And I intend to know** ** _why_** **.** "

The boy smiled at this last comment, though it was a purely mechanic reaction if the lost look in his eyes was anything to go by.

Still, Tom didn't commented on it. He knew better.


	3. Chapter 3

_Hello!_

 _I read this through a couple of times and deemed it ready to publication. There are many explanations in there and not many things happen, so it might be not that exciting - but this story is kinda meant to be slow-paced._

 _Again, remember that this is a Major!AU and enjoy!_

 _Also, I do not own Harry Potter._

* * *

 _1:57 PM, July 21_ _st_ _, 1991, Number 4, Privet Drive, Surrey, England_

There was a tense silence as the people sitting around the table studied each others. And while Tom Riddle looked perfectly at eased where he sat, Petunia Dursley was a pale shade of green and her hands were twisting nervously in her pink apron.

Not a word had been said since Harry Potter had been sent upstairs to shower and change. The only thing that had happened since then was the obviously fake smile Tom Riddle had offered the housewife when the boy had taken his change of clothes from the cupboard under the stairs, blushing and looking everywhere but at the Hogwarts professor. Petunia Dursley's expression had turned terrorized at the smile, but she had not offered a single excuse about what he had seen (instead, she had spent the whole time thanking the Lord that her Duddums had left for a sleepover at his friends' house earlier that day, and praying for her husband's life when he would come back from work).

The noise of the shower suddenly ceased and Petunia's bony shoulders tensed further. The professor's fake smile widened slightly, and finally turned genuine when soft footsteps reached the kitchen. He turned to welcome the child.

And this was the scene Harry walked into.

* * *

As he had escorted Professor Riddle to his relatives' home, Harry had not really known what was going to happen. He only knew that he had been invited to this magic school (of which he was still a bit suspicious, but the transformation from a snake to a man had been enough to quell most of his doubts. It was either that or he had eaten something he shouldn't have, which he knew wasn't true because he had yet to eat anything that day) that his family had been going to for generations. He guessed that it had been his father's family, because he simply couldn't picture Aunt Petunia stirring a cauldron under the full moon or wearing a black pointy hat – she also hated animals, so she never would get anywhere close to a black cat. Never mind that the Dursley couple always seemed to have an aneurysm whenever their boring lives deviated from their _normal_ routine, and magic had never been part of said routine, never mind being a 'Dursley' kind of normal.

When his aunt had walked into the kitchen, having heard him open the door, she had looked ready to shout at him – but then Professor Riddle had stepped in front of him and had given his aunt with a polite if frosty greeting. After two minutes of silence, the man had told him to go shower, that they'd wait for him in the dining room.

Harry had spent his shower thinking about things. He had even made a list of questions he wanted to ask, but wasn't sure if he'd get answers to. He wasn't used to being allowed to ask questions, so he was legitimately wary. Not of Professor Riddle, of course, but of his aunt's reaction. She clearly didn't want him to know about magic, but seemed too scared of the wizard to say so to his face. It made Harry wonder when she'd find her voice and what she would say. Would she insult his parents like she usually did whenever she got mad at him, or paint herself as a victim like she did when talking to the neighbours about him?

"Hello, Mr Potter." Professor Riddle said as Harry entered the kitchen, looking around uncomfortably and wondering what he should do. "Please sit with us. There are a few things we should discuss and I am afraid it might take a while."

Harry silently slid in the nearest chair, which happened to be Dudley's, causing Petunia to twitch nervously as if she was itching to push him off it and tell him off for 'sullying her Duddykin's things with his freaky germs'. She stayed quiet, though, altering between giving Harry hateful looks and looking nervously at Professor Riddle.

"First things first, I suppose." The man said and he slipped a hand into the pocket of his three-piece black suit, retrieving a thick envelope and handing it over to Harry. "Your acceptance letter." The wizard explained when Harry looked at the hand, but otherwise didn't move.

Harry nodded, then accepted the envelope with an hesitant hand. Petunia made an aborted motion, as if to rip it from his hands, but Harry ignored her and delicately broke the wax seal before curiously looking at what was inside.

A flash of purple immediately caught his eye and he took it, taking his time to observe it and trying to guess its function.

It was made of a solid and heavy paper, dyed purple with white lettering and frame and a black painted image on the back – it was the same symbol as the wax seal and Harry figured that it was the crest of the school. As he moved to show it to Professor Riddle and ask about it, the light caught something on the paper and an image appeared in the background behind the letters. It only appeared when the paper caught the light right and Harry amused himself with it for a few seconds, before inquiring about it to the wizard.

"Your train ticket." The wizard managed to communicate his poor opinion of the subject despite his voice and face being neutral and polite – Harry was a little impressed. "A few centuries ago, it was decided to build a secret train platform at King's Cross where Hogwarts students could spend seven hours in a train with nearly no adult supervision, though it is now a method to 'encourage socialisation between students before and after the Sorting' if you ask any Ministry employee. The old method, which was a mix of Portkeys and Apparition – think about near-instant teleportation – was getting too messy with the raising number of students, and timing everything right so no one got hurt was too much trouble for those people, it appears. The platform's entrance is situated into the third pillar of Platform 9, thus its name."

"Oh." Was Harry's reply, after which he returned his attention to the envelope on his lap. He pulled one of the parchment pieces and unfold it, before reading it attentively.

 _HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY_

 _Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore_

 _(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf Warlock, Supreme Mugwump. International Confed. of Wizards)_

 _Dear Mr. Potter,_

 _We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books or equipment._

 _Term begins on September 1_ _st_ _. We await your owl no later than July 31_ _st_ _._

 _Yours sincerely,_

 _Tom M. Riddle_

 _Deputy Headmaster_

"What does it mean, 'we await your owl'?" Harry asked, looking up from the piece of parchment.

"Witches and wizards," Professor Riddle said, ignoring the startled shriek from Petunia, "communicate mostly by letters that we send by messenger birds, mainly owls, though there is also what we call Floo calls, but I will explain later. Magical families must send an owl to confirm their child or children's attendance, but, in your case, a simple verbal reply will..."

"I refuse!" Suddenly shouted a red-faced Petunia, causing Harry to jump in fright as he looked at his aunt. "I completely, fully refuse! I have sworn to myself to keep away from that world when the boy appeared on our doorstep, and I won't let him go to some freak school to teach him to become even more freakish!"

"I do not like to be interrupted." Professor Riddle said gently, but strongly enough that Petunia paled again, her blue eyes widening in fear. Harry stilled in his seat when he noticed that the professor's voice had taken a slight hissing quality. "Also, you must have misheard me. I said that _magical_ families have to confirm the attendance of their children. Non-magical families, or _guardians_ , have no authority in our world, and certainly have no power to keep their wards out of Hogwarts. Some witches and wizards prefer to home-school their children, this is why one may decline an invitation to Hogwarts, but it is impossible to do so for muggles with a magical child. Mr Potter has _no other choice_ than to accept his invitation to Hogwarts, it is a mere formality to accept it, as I was going to explain before you _interrupted me._ "

Harry licked his lips, feeling the scabs under his dry tongue, before looking shyly at the once again peaceful-looking professor. Harry wondered if the man was bipolar, or if he was simply controlling himself to appear amiable. Somehow, the latter seemed more likely, but it would mean that Professor Riddle wasn't a nice person, and Harry was unwilling to think that. So he simply ignored this thought and decided to ask the Professor one of the questions he had wanted to ask.

"How do you teach magic?" He asked with a small voice, observing the man to see his reaction to his question – the Dursleys had never reacted positively, but some teachers at his old school liked it when students did it. He relaxed when Professor Riddle gave him an approving look and leaned in a bit to listen to the answer.

"Some classes are split in two parts – theoretical and practical. For half of the period, the teacher will explain something and demonstrate what they mean, before letting the students try their hands at it under their supervision. But that is for simple, structural classes, like Charms or Potions. In my class, which is Defence Against the Dark Arts, I expect students to read ahead, so I mainly uses my classes to clarify things they might have misunderstood and I watch them as they put their knowledge into practice. I know for a fact that Pomona Sprout, the Herbology professor, does the same. Other classes are primarily made of theory, like Transfiguration and History of Magic, but Transfiguration is a very difficult subject and I know that Minerva only wants to prevent accidents."

The last part made Harry frown. "There are accidents?"

"Yes." Professor Riddle confirmed. "It does not happen very often, but sometimes a spell goes wrong or a poorly-made potion turns bad. We try to prevent such things, this is why students, especially those without their O.W.L.s, are encouraged to have a trained adult in the room before attempting a new spell – it is one of the reason of Hogwarts' existence, after all."

"Owls?" Harry repeated.

The corner of the wizard's mouth twitched.

"Ah, forgive me. It is an acronym for _Outstanding Wizarding Levels_ , tests made in Fifth Year. It is the first series of exams a student has to go through, and a witch or a wizard needs to pass at least three exams if they wish to keep their wand. Do not worry, failing to get those three O.W.L.s does not mean that you are kicked out or anything. As long as you have them before you turn seventeen, which is the age of majority in the Magical World, you get to keep your wand."

Harry stared at the other man, the envelope forgotten on his lap. "What do you need a wand for?"

The professor raised an eyebrow. "To cast spells, I would say."

"But..." Harry bit his lips, tasting blood, but forced himself to sit still. "I mean, you don't need a wand _all the time_ , right? Like, there are some things you can do without it."

Harry watched as something akin to realisation flashed into the professor's eyes and his own widened when the wizard smiled at him. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, only a few moments from ducking his head sheepishly.

"Very few witches and wizards can use magic without a wand." Professor Riddle said slowly, his smile never wavering. "But I assume that your insistence means that you have some things you can do with your will alone?"

Harry looked hesitantly at Petunia, before looking back at Professor Riddle and nodding once.

"What is it?" He saw Harry look at Petunia again. "Do not worry about her, Mr Potter. I very much doubt that she will remember anything of this meeting in a few hours, a day at most."

Petunia gasped in horror beside them, but Harry had already dismissed her in favour of trying not to look guilty in front of his soon-to-be teacher.

"I can make things fly." Harry muttered softly, his eyes focused on his hands. "When I fall or trip, the wind catches me before I touch the ground, and it took me to the roof of my old school once... I never tried it, but I'm sure I can fly. I never was afraid of heights, either."

Harry risked a look toward the Hogwarts teacher, but the smile was still there, if a tad brighter. Harry blushed, a giddy feeling starting to grow in his chest.

He wasn't in trouble! Professor Riddle even looked _impressed_!

"I see that the rumours of the Potter's aerokinesis were true." The professor mused aloud, before he shook his head slightly. "What you have just described me, Mr Potter, is a Family Talent – a magical ability transmitted by blood. In your case, the Potter Family's control over wind and gaz. Few Families like to publicise their Talent, so I would advise you to keep this fact to yourself. Some Families cannot help it, though, either because it is too obvious or because it brings some prestige. The Blacks, for example, have individuals popping up every few generations who can change their appearances at will – it is called being a Metamorphmagus, there is one at Hogwarts presently –, but a strong enough emotion might alter their body, so they had no choice but to reveal it. My own Family, the Slytherins, has an important part of history in England, so exposing our Talent gives us some respect. The Talent is our affinity with snakes, including Parseltongue, which is basically the ability to understand and speak to snakes and some other reptiles."

It took Harry two seconds to connect the dots. When he did, he gasped and looked up at Professor Riddle with wide eyes.

"We're related?!" He exclaimed loudly, only to blush harder when the man gave him an unimpressed raised eyebrow. Okay, so Professor Riddle didn't cared about loud exclamations. Noted.

"Our earlier exchange proves that we are." The man acquiesced, before smirking at Petunia. "I was not aware of it before you spoke to me earlier, but I know that it cannot come from your father's side. Your mother, and thus Petunia here, are probably distant cousins of mine."

The strangled sound Petunia made caused Harry to turn toward her, only to witness the woman's face hit the table. She was unconscious, twitching and drooling, but Harry was more curious about whether she was having a heart attack. He had thought that Vernon would be the one to go that way, not his skinny aunt.

"Shouldn't we help her?" Harry inquired, though not sounding very concerned. It wasn't like Petunia had ever helped _him_ when he was hurt or sick.

"Give her a moment." The professor said indifferently. "If she does not wake up in ten minutes, I will see if I can do something. I must say that I am not overly fond of non-magical folk, even if they happen to be distant relatives of mine."

Harry hummed. He could relate to that.

"Back to the subject." The wizard looked at Harry seriously, causing him to sit straighter in his chair. "I am not without enemies, and some of them would gladly make use of our newfound relation to put me in a situation of weakness. A few would hurt you simply because you are related to me, others would hate you simply because you can speak to snakes and even more people would attempt to use you to get closer to me. I wish to keep our blood ties a secret for now, at least until you passed your O.W.L.s, but preferably until after your graduation."

Professor Riddle looked at Harry for a moment, but Harry wasn't sure what his expression was like. Shock, maybe? Disappointment? Sadness, because his newfound family did not wanted it known that they were related? Was Professor Riddle disgusted with him, ashamed to be related to him? Like the Dursleys?

"Do not misunderstand me, Harry." The use of his first name snapped him out of his depressive thoughts and he raised his head, probably looking every kind of miserable and pitiful. Really, he shouldn't have gotten his hopes up, who would want to be related to him? "It is not that I do not want our relation to be known, but I would feel better if you knew how to defend yourself before my enemies got wind of your existence. It does not mean that you cannot visit me in my quarters in your free time, nor that you are not welcome to write to me during the summers. For all that I am a busy man, I will make time for you when you need it."

Harry still felt uncertain. "I won't live with you? You said I could write to you during the summers." It sounded like an accusation, and it made Harry bite his lip harder in worry at the man's reaction.

"My..." The man hesitated, before sighing. "My house is hardly a place for a child, Harry. I have... _friends_ who are not the nicest, some who would take offence at your presence in my home. I am also often away on travels, at social gatherings or simply at Hogwarts and I would be damned if I left you alone in a house where there are some powerful and _dangerous_ magical artefacts. You will be able to visit, but staying will not be possible." There was a pause, before he continued. "That does not mean that I will leave you _here_ , though. You are leaving this place today, never to come back, and I will have summer arrangements ready for you to choose from before the end of the school year. Staying with me... It would be unwise to do so, I am sorry."

Harry shrugged uncomfortably, a bit ashamed of himself for having implied what he had. Of course Professor Riddle had a life, Harry couldn't expect him to shove everything aside to take care of him! And he was going to live with him during the school year anyway, so what was two months in the summer?

Not to mention that Professor Riddle was doing this to protect him. He wasn't surprised that Professor Riddle was an important man, he carried himself with the kind of confidence Harry had only seen in politicians and actors on TV. He also understood what the professor had not told him, but had strongly implied : revealing that he spoke to snakes would be the quickest way to break the secrecy on their relation. So Harry couldn't speak to snakes at Hogwarts. He could do that.

Feeling like the subject was too heavy – too fresh – to continue, Harry decided to change it.

"Albus Dumbledore..." He started, then paused at the immediate reaction that the name caused to the professor. Professor Riddle's face had blanked, returning to the polite but cold expression he had been wearing while waiting with Petunia. It made Harry even more curious. "Who is he? I mean, there are a lot of titles under his name, but I don't know what they mean."

Professor Riddle inclined his head. "He is the Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards – the ICW's job is to supervise magical activity around the world, though it is known to ignore a few events, and the American and Asian members are often excluded because of cultural differences, as far as I know. The Supreme Mugwump is the president of the group; he is the one to speak to the press, coordinate meetings and make sure everyone is following protocol. Chief Warlock is mostly the same thing, only with the Wizengamot, which is a jury that can be both a supervisor of the criminal system – but only the worst offenders get the full set – and an assembly of politicians. They make, judge, revise, vote and terminate the laws of Magical Britain. The Wizengamot also has two temporary 'leaders' during trials : the Minister of Magic and the Interrogator. The first is there to defend the accuser, while the Interrogator asks questions to both parties.

"And so the Chief Warlock's duty is to assure that no wrongs are committed by the body and that protocols are followed, but it is not rare for the one in position to abuse his powers to his advantage _._ As for an 'Order of Merlin', it is a reward offered to people who did a great service to the country, and 'First Class' is the highest homage. Dumbledore got his after he defeated Grindelwald, a wizard who lead an army who sided with the muggle Nazis during World War II – he is what magical folk call a 'Dark Lord'. A 'Grand Sorcerer' is a title one receives when they become an important figure in the world of magical discoveries. I, myself, received the same title when I was fifty-one."

At the revelation of the wizard's advanced age, Harry couldn't help but stare at the youthful face in front of him. Professor Riddle certainly did not looked his age, he seemed in his late twenties at most!

"Albus Dumbledore," the older wizard continued slowly, as if measuring his words, "is not someone I am close with. We do not get along, most likely never will, and you will indubitably notice how it affects Hogwarts after a few weeks – even students are taking sides, it becomes ridiculous at times. Dumbledore was the Transfiguration Professor and Deputy Headmaster when I was a student at Hogwarts, and he became the Headmaster in 1954, three years after I became a teacher. He made many advancements in the magical world's academic society and is known to most people as the 'Leader of the Light' or, as it is understood, the leader of all that is good and kind. I will not tell you what to think of him, but I would appreciate if you took some time to watch him before you made your opinion of him. Hearsay is filled with people's own interpretations, and not everyone see things the same way."

Harry nodded firmly. It sounded like a sensible advice, even though he wasn't sure he would like someone Professor Riddle didn't get along with. But he would wait and watch, just like the professor had said, just like he would keep quiet about their blood ties.

A low moan interrupted Harry before he could ask his next question – about what Professor Riddle had done to gain the title of 'Grand Sorcerer' – and they turned toward the waking Petunia.

Harry felt some disappointment at the sight. He had wanted to know what Professor Riddle would do to Petunia to wake her up. The thought of magic having been done on her might even had provoked a nice reaction!

He blushed when Professor Riddle gave him an amused smirk. His thoughts had probably been showing on his face. How embarrassing!


	4. Chapter 4

_Hello!_

 _See, I had this new chapter and I decided to publish it - aren't I nice?_

 _I don't own Harry Potter and please enjoy!_

* * *

 _5:12 PM, July 21st, 1991, Hettie's Inn, Liverpool_

Harry was slowly eating his dinner, trying not to stare at the man eating graciously in front of him. He had not known that it was possible to eat with grace before, but he supposed that, if someone should be able to, it would be Professor Riddle. There seemed to be very few things the wizard didn't know or couldn't do perfectly, if the last past hours were anything to go by.

After Petunia had woken up, Professor Riddle had explained to Harry how things were going to happen – in exactly one week, after he had the time to look more into things, the professor would come back to Privet Drive and would make Petunia sign papers that would officially transfer Harry's guardianship over to him. After that, both Dudley and Vernon would loose every memories in any way related to magic; in their minds, Harry would have become nothing more than a blurry notion and they would believe that the boy's father had woken up from a coma and had taken him back. The belief would spread to other people when they came in contact with someone already 'infected', thanks to a spell a friend of Professor Riddle had invented years ago.

Petunia, who had been introduced to magic along her sister, would keep her memories, but would be spelled to make her unable to speak of anything magical, muggle tricks not included. She would also be 'infected' by the memory-influencing spell, so that she could help the propagation of the magic. The spell only worked on second-generation squibs and muggles, Professor Riddle had explained, and magical beings inquiring about the 'hidden truth' would be able to notice the magic at work. Or so Harry had understood – it was a very complicated spell with complicated theory and only a few people were capable of casting it, let alone _allowed_ to. Professor Riddle was one of them, because he had to deal with muggleborn's families and sometimes a relative would react badly to accidental magic.

After the explanation had been over, Professor Riddle had done some magic on him and on his clothes, making him look like any other kid in the streets (as opposed to the street kids), had erased Petunia's memories of the meeting before informing her that Harry was leaving, and then had taken Harry away from Privet Drive for good. There had been nothing he had wanted to bring along to his new life, so he wouldn't be surprised to learn that his aunt had burnt everything that had been his to use as soon as they had been gone.

Professor Riddle had brought him to Diagon Alley, London's magical district, which was hidden behind a magical pub called the Leaky Cauldron, and had immediately pulled him to a shop called Twilfitt and Tatting's, where an old man with a hawk nose and hooded eyes had taken Harry's measurements with cold professionalism. The man had left to work on their order and they had stepped out for a while, coming back only after having purchased a trunk to the professor's liking. They had left the shop a few minutes later with three everyday robes (which Harry found a bit weird to be daywear, but didn't dare to comment on), three more to be made and three school uniforms in the making. Professor Riddle had paid for it all, to Harry's embarrassed horror, saying that it was his responsibility as Harry's guardian. They would head to Gringotts the next day to see how much money Harry had in his Trust Found, but that money would only be used for things Harry wanted that were not on Hogwarts' list (like club supplies or treats). Only had Harry had no other known relatives, then it would have been used to pay his supplies.

Because, apparently, Harry's father was from an old wizarding family and such families had safety measures in case a child was orphaned, which included a small account to pay for said child's school bills and other necessities until they turned seventeen (the magicals' age of majority) or twenty-five (the age when magicals could become an 'active' member of their Family, but Harry had not really understood that part). This was in place in case the orphan's guardians tried to siphon the Family's funds, or to protect the Family from impulsive and careless heirs.

Which brought up some questions Harry had really wanted to ask before, but had not had the opportunity to. Professor Riddle had warned him against talking about anything personal in public, especially once he went to school, so their discussions had mostly been about Hogwarts and the Magical World in general. But now they were alone, in a private room Madam Hettie, the inn's owner, had offered them as soon as they had Apparated in (on a side note, Harry absolutely hated Side-Along Apparition; even if Apparating by himself would feel nicer, as Professor Riddle had said, he did _not_ liked the feeling of being sucked into a straw, whether it was a big one or a small one would not make him change his mind). This was a perfect occasion for the subject that interested him the most.

"Professor ?" He asked softly. Dark grey eyes blinked at him in an open face and Harry gathered his courage. "Did you know my parents?"

The professor paused, swallowed his food, and nodded slowly. "I taught them when they were in school and they were quite... memorable students, I suppose. I was not close to them, however, no matter how often I had your father and his friends in detention."

Harry's eyes widened. "Really?" He hesitated. "Could you tell me about them?"

"I certainly could." The Professor agreed. "Though, if you want stories from people who knew your parents personally, I would suggest you ask Minerva McGonagall, the Transfiguration teacher, who always favoured your father, and Horace Slughorn, the Potion master, who was close to your mother. Your mother was also a friend of Severus Snape, who teaches Potions to Sixth and Seventh Year students of certain credentials, but I would not ask him about her if I were you. He hated your father with a passion and it would not surprise me if he also disliked you on principle."

Harry nodded quickly, mentally committing the names to memory and filing Professor Riddle's advice in a corner of his mind. He would observe this Severus Snape, then would decide to act or not.

"What about my father's friends?"

"They are still alive." Professor Riddle answered with a frown. "But his best friend, Sirius Black, is in prison at the moment – he was attacked in the middle of a muggle area, so it was decided to sentence him for allowing the enemy to kill some of them, no matter how absurd it sounds. Another friend betrayed your father, resulting in his and your mother's death, and the last one, Remus Lupin, disappeared shortly after their death. Nobody has heard of him ever since Black's mock-trial."

Harry lowered his eyes on his pork pie. Well, if that wasn't a bad omen...

"You said my father was often in detention?" Harry asked after a moment, prodding a piece of pork with his fork. He had wanted to ask about the traitor, to ask for the name of the person responsible for Harry's orphan status and miserable childhood, but it sounded like a long story. And, right now, Harry's priority was to learn more about his parents, not about their death.

"Look at me when you are talking to me." Professor Riddle said without inflection, causing Harry's head to snap upward and his heart to stop for a second. The older wizard gave him a severe look. "And speak clearly. Mumbling is unbecoming."

Harry nodded quickly. "Yes, Sir."

A small satisfied smile pulled at the Professor's lips before he started to speak again.

"Yes, James Potter was often in detention. It is a wonder he was accepted in the Auror Corps – think of the muggles' police forces – with a Disciplinary Record like the one he had. But he was extremely talented in Transfiguration, on his way to become a Master of the field before his thirties, and an even better duellist. It is a sad fact that he trained his skills and creativity in the corridors of Hogwarts and with the other students of the school, and not always in their interests either. It was only when your mother finally accepted his advances, after five year of pursuit, that his attitude curbed a little under her influence."

A cold knot had made itself home in Harry's stomach and his left hand was fisted tightly in his lap. "He was a bully?"

"Yes." Professor Riddle replied bluntly, making Harry flinch. Nevertheless, Harry appreciated the honesty – he had been lied to too often not to understand the value of truth, even of a hurtful one. "Yet, he was still very popular with the rest of his House. His favourite victims were Slytherins and Hufflepuffs – Gryffindor and Slytherin Houses have always been at odds and Hufflepuff House is falsely considered as the House of idiots, so I do not think he saw any harm in what he did. He was also enamoured with your mother since their first meeting and was trying to impress her through his 'creative' actions. It failed, of course, your mother was a woman with defined, if a bit naive, ideals of what was right and wrong, though she could ignore them when she wanted retribution. I remember that she hung three naked students by their ankle from the Astronomy Tower in her Fourth Year, after they sent a friend of hers to the infirmary. Everybody knew it was her, but nobody could prove it. She became an 'honorary Slytherin' that day, Horace was insufferable."

Harry smiled at that. His mother sounded like a scary woman – and the good kind of scary, too. He would have liked to know her.

"Lily Evans was not only smart, she was also very talented at everything she set her mind to." Professor Riddle continued. "Filius Flitwick, the Charm Professor, talked about her natural talent for his subject at every staff meeting while she was his student. Like I said earlier, she was rather close to Horace Slughorn and kept in contact with him even after she left school. I think he considered her like the daughter he never had, so do not be surprised if you see him hovering over your desk in his class. He is probably hoping for you to have inherited her talent in potions, which was second only to Severus', and he will most likely brag about her if you give him the opportunity to."

"Oh." Harry took a moment to think things through, before he continued. "Did my mother had other friends?"

"A woman named Mary MacDonald was rather close with her, but she died a few years ago, cursed by an artefact she was gifted anonymously, if I remember correctly. The Gryffindors in her year might be able to tell you a few things, but your mother was more academically-oriented than anything else, for all that she was friendly with most everyone."

Harry nodded slowly, a bit disappointed. So his mother's only living friend was a man who probably hated him, huh? Oh, well, at least Professor Slughorn would be willing to talk to him. "Thank you, Professor."

"You are welcome." The man replied easily, a small but warm smile on his face. "I am here to answer your questions, Harry. Both as a teacher and as family."

Harry smiled joyously, both at the mention of their familial relation and at his name, feeling giddy at the acknowledgement that they were _family_. Professor Riddle was a better relative than the Dursleys ever were (actually, Harry would be happy if he never had to think about the Dursleys ever again, even less about their familial bond, so it wasn't like Professor Riddle had much competition on that point).

"Speaking of my duties." The professor was giving him a serious look and Harry immediately gave him all of his attention, straightening in his chair and putting his fork back on the table. "As Deputy Headmaster, it is my job to introduce muggle-raised children to our world. There are more of them this year than usual, so I will not be able to spend the whole day with you tomorrow – I will most likely leave around noon, and my schedule will be rather full for the next week. Do not worry if I do not reply to your letters immediately, though you are welcome to write to me everyday if you so wish. Even if it is simply to tell me about your day."

A happy smile made its way to Harry's lips and he nodded. He wouldn't write to the professor _every single day_ – he didn't want to make a nuisance out of himself or appear as an over-dependant leech like the girls in Aunt Petunia's afternoon dramas –, but every two or three days seemed like an adequate plan. He could note down everything he wanted to tell the man, then put everything in one letter. Professor Riddle seemed the kind of person who preferred practicality over sentimentality, especially with what the man had said about his busy schedule. Harry didn't want to bother the man when he was occupied with work.

"Okay. Where are we going tomorrow?" Harry asked.

"We are going back to Diagon Alley." Professor Riddle replied before returning to his meal, prompting Harry to imitate him with a look to his plate. "It is the largest magical shopping district in the United Kingdom, and the only place where Hogwarts students can be assured to find everything they need in one place. You already have your uniform and you will have to wait until your birthday to purchase your wand – one must be eleven to buy one, sadly – but the rest of your supplies will be easy enough to acquire. We will also make a stop at Fletwock's Footwear next door so that they can take your measurements and have at least one pair of shoes ready for you by the end of the week."

Harry swallowed, then realised what had seemed odd in Professor Riddle's words. "What do you mean, 'at least _one_ pair of shoes'? I need _more_?"

"Well, yes." Professor Riddle stated, before taking a bite of his dinner. "Indoor shoes, outdoor shoes and winter boots. For those who take Care of Magical Creatures in Third Year or NEWT-level Herbology, Hogwarts also advices to buy protection boots, but that is for the _students'_ safety, just like winter boots are for the _students'_ comfort. Outdoor shoes were made mandatory after the caretaker had a breakdown – cleaning after four hundreds students who brings mud inside was a tedious task, especially considering that tradition demands that Hogwarts caretakers be squibs. Non-magical children born in magical families, if you prefer."

"Oh." He paused for a moment, thinking. "Wouldn't it be easier if the caretaker could use magic, though?"

"It would." Professor Riddle agreed. "But, back in the old days, magical families were known to kill their squibs, because having one in the family was like admitting that their blood was not powerful enough to carry magic. Even today, giving birth to a squib is one of the greatest shames of our world. In 1426, Hogwarts opened posts for squibs, so that people would be tempted to let them live so they could bring money to their family. Hogwarts' caretaker, librarian and gamekeeper positions are all jobs that are open to squibs or magicals who are not allowed to use magic. Currently, only our librarian, Irma Pince, is a full-fledge witch, and only because no squib applied for her job in the last thirty years. Rubeus Hagrid, the gamekeeper, was expelled in his Third Year and was forbidden the use of a wand – though whether he still use it or not is another story."

Harry blinked quickly, a bit stunned by the contempt that flashed through the professor's narrowed eyes at the mention of the gamekeeper. He made a note not to mention this Hagrid person around Professor Riddle after that day, but he was still curious and found himself asking the question that was burning his tongue.

"Why was he expelled?" Because he'd make sure to never do the same thing. Not only would it make him an outcast in his new world, but, considering Professor Riddle's open dislike of the man, it would probably destroy whatever relationship they had. And Harry was willing to do about anything to make sure that Professor Riddle liked him.

"He secretly brought a young Acromantula – a man-eating spider, incredibly intelligent and capable of injecting a very painful and potent venom into its prey, if the fangs themselves don't kill it – to school and let it wander in the corridors. It eventually got hungry and ate a student."

Harry paused as he brought his food to his lips, the image flashing through his mind, before he pushed it aside and continued eating. It would take more than a little bit of gore to make him stop, what after living with the Dursleys; not only was the sight of Dudley, Vernon and Marge eating together horror movie-worthy, but food had became something _precious_. He was going to eat his fill, _then_ ponder on his apparent lack of empathy concerning someone's gruesome death.

"His obsession with dangerous creatures didn't end with his expulsion, unfortunately." Professor Riddle continued, a small sneer forming on his face. "Every few years, Hogwarts has to deal with beasts he found lying around and brought back to his hut. Some are executed after they proved to be a danger to the students, and luckily there wasn't any more deaths. I still want you to be careful if you approach his hut. For all that he appears as a nice man, I wouldn't want you to be hurt because of his distorted sense of safety."

Harry swallowed his food before answering. "I'll be careful."

The sneer was replaced by a small smile that Harry couldn't help but answer in kind.

"Good." Professor Riddle approved. His grey eyes looked at Harry's empty plate before staring back into Harry's green ones. "Would you mind waiting a little bit longer for dessert? We have one last place we need to go to today, but it happens to be right next to a chocolate shop I am rather fond of, so we could eat there. We should be done within the hour, and we will be spending the night here."

Harry had perked up at the mention of chocolate and offered the professor his most eager smile as he nodded his agreement.

* * *

He slightly regretted having agreed so quickly when they arrived at the shop Professor Riddle had wanted to bring him to – one that sold everything from underwear to wart-growing cream. To Harry's mortification, Professor Riddle had immediately pushed him toward the men's clothing section, which was filled with nothing but expensive-looking nightwear items, including silk boxers and velvet dressing gowns. He had spent two whole minutes looking everywhere but at the merchandise with a burning blush on his face, before he attempted to try and find something to his taste.

When Professor Riddle had came back, the shop owner in tow, it was to a wide-eyed Harry who was looking at the neon green, giraffe-pattern skin-tight brief his gaze had first landed upon. He had only snapped out of his horrified contemplation when the owner had commented how this was one of his most popular item and how wizards in general had no taste whatsoever. Harry's miserable pleading look to Professor Riddle had gone unnoticed as the man went to introduce Harry to the owner, who seemed incapable of looking away from the professor longer than a few seconds at a time. It didn't seem to bother the man, though, so Harry didn't mention it.

Due to the late hour, the owner, one Feodor Maxwell, only had them to focus on. After Professor Riddle had informed the man that they needed each of everything – and he meant _everything_ – Mr Maxwell had gone in a frenzy and only took a second to make sure the professor approved, never mind that it was for _Harry_ , before throwing the garments in Harry's basket. After a comment from the professor that had the owner ran to the other side of the shop, Harry was stopped in his tracks by a cold hand landing on his shoulder.

He snapped wide eyes toward the man, shoulders a bit tensed – he wasn't used to physical contact, never mind the nice kind of contact.

"Feel free to take anything you like, or to put back anything you do not on the racks." Harry was told with a hushed voice. "Feodor is a bit enthusiastic, but he will not begrudge you for having different tastes. He will not be wearing those, _you_ will, and I am sure you would prefer owning things you are comfortable with using."

Harry nodded, relaxing when Professor Riddle removed his hand as Mr Maxwell returned with... a cube? Harry gave the professor a confused look.

"It's a portative wardrobe." The man explained. "I will put this in the trunk we purchased, adding another compartment so that your clothes will not get wrinkled or damaged by the rest of your belonging."

"Very useful, though not everyone can afford it." Mr Maxwell said with a grin, before sending the older man an adoring look. "Of course, not everyone is as capable as you, Sir. If you did not needed it immediately, you would probably have been able to make this yourself."

"I would." Professor Riddle agreed with a nod. He didn't say anything else, but the shop owner only smiled before inviting them to follow him.

Then he threw a glare at Harry, who only belatedly realised that the animosity was directed at his hair. He blinked owlishly when he met Mr Maxwell's determinate eyes.

"I don't know what you did to that poor hair of yours to get it that way, sweetheart, but I'm sure we'll find something to correct the damages. If your professor would agree to let me cast a few spells on you, I might even get _just_ what you need." At Professor Riddle's nod, a wide grin split Mr Maxwell's face. "Stay still, sweetie, and we'll be done in five minutes."

Harry tensed when the man pull out his wand and he was soon imitating a statue. His eyes followed every twitches and swirls of the wand as nonsensical words slipped from the owner's mouth. His hair glowed golden, blue and red, then his skin felt like something was crawling in his veins – and he never wanted to feel it ever again.

"Mmm... Dry, thick hair... Strong and curly, huh? Never tried to wear it longer, I bet, but it's the tricky kind, the legendary Potter hair, I see... oh, and that skin, horrible... Is your soap made of salamander oil or something? Nevermind, I have something for that. And I might have some potion to fade those scars of yours."

Harry's heart stopped at the mention of his scars. His back and arms were covered with them, then there was his left calf that looked as if it had been shredded or something – more like Ripper had managed to graze him a couple of times before the wind had finally pushed him up when he had not had enough strenght to lift himself further up the backyard's tree.

"Would you mind getting everything for us?" Professor Riddle asked when Harry didn't reply. "We will look at the bathroom items in the mean time."

Mr Maxwell's smile had dimmed a bit, but he agreed willingly enough. As he disappeared once again, the professor turned toward Harry.

"We will speak about this later." He informed him, his eyes flashing red for a second, though Harry wasn't sure if it was his imagination acting up or something else.

Harry stared for a moment, then nodded. 'Later' sounded better than 'now', even if he knew that Professor Riddle had only meant 'not in public'. It would still give him enough time to think about what he would tell the older wizard.

Because while he would be loathed to be dishonest with the man, the stories behind some of his scars were not things he wanted to share. The Ripper Incident would be okay to share as long as he didn't tell that Marge had sent the dog after him, just like how he had earned marks the first (and last) time his aunt had ordered him to help her fry doughuts – Dudley had pushed him while Petunia was looking elsewhere, making him grab the nearest thing (the oil-filled fryer) to try and stabilize himself, but it had only ended with (surprisingly mild, considering the pain) burns covering his arms, hands, torso and feet.

But Harry very much did not want to explain the words carved on his ribs. Or the round cigard burns in his palms. Least of all, he didn't want to tell about the scars on his back, put there when he was eigth when Dudley's gang had cornered him and thrown rocks at his curled up self.

Those marks were remnant of his shame and humiliation and reminded him of his vulnerability everytime he saw them or felt their rough edges under his fingers.

He hated them. Just like he hated the fact that he would be carrying them for the rest of his life – he didn't dare to hope that Mr Maxwell's magic could erase them completely.


	5. Chapter 5

_Hello there!_

 _I went over this chapter a few more times, then decided that it was ready for publication. I'm a bit put out at having written a Shopping Trip Chapter, it's something done in most stories so it's not that original, but I tried to go over the actual purchases quickly to concentrate on more interesting elements of the story. I hope that it's to your tastes._

 _Oh! That's right! To the guest reviewer, about the James bashing, I hope this will explain my writing decisions : while Tom's purpose was not to hurt Harry, it's not like he's a good man or supports coddling. He also truly doesn't care about praising someone (dead or not) who repeatedly got on his nerves in school and he has no interest in having Harry develop a daddy-complex like he had in the books, so he did some prevention._

 _I'm not sure if I made it obvious, but Tom was (and will still be) trying to mold Harry's future attitude. Harry understood that his outgoing father, talented in **one** class, was a bully despite himself (because he saw no harm in what he did, but Tom made it clear that it was still not acceptable) and a typical Gryffindor, though not a fondamentaly bad person. Then Tom spoke of his mother, who could succeed 'at everything she set her mind to', had few friends she was very loyal to and had become an honorary Slytherin through a rule-breaking act nobody could proove it was her who did it (though she still had **naive** ideals, see the pattern?). Tom was discreetly telling Harry of what behaviour is prefereable and which is not tolerateable. Harry is smart enough to get the hints, eager that he is to please his new guardian. _

_So, there you go. Please enjoy this new chapter._

Disclaimer : I do not own Harry Potter

* * *

 _10:47AM, July 22_ _nd_ _, 1991, Diagon Alley, Florean Fortescue Ice Cream Parlour_

Looking down on his sundae like it held the most captivating mysteries, Harry tried his best to ignore the smiling man in front of him. Bartemius Crouch Junior, who prefered to be called Barty because anything else reminded him too much of his most despised father, seemed like a nice person. He had even bought Harry another sundae to try and lighten his mood after Professor Riddle's abrupt departure – within one hour of their shopping trip, only a few seconds after they had finished settling Harry's affairs at Gringotts, an owl had flown right into the professor's face with a letter tied to its leg. After having stationned Harry at a table of the ice cream parlour, he had read the letter with a growing frown and an annoyed curl of the mouth before informing Harry that their plans would need to be cancelled.

The wizard had not explained much about his missive, only telling Harry that it was urgent and that he had to leave. After making Harry swear to write to him at least once in the following week (he had introduced Harry to the owl that would 'serve' him for the foreseeable future that morning at the inn, the bird – named Mercure – having shown up during the night thanks to an instinctive knowledge of when it was needed by its master), the professor had said that he would send a friend of his to accompany Harry for the rest of his shopping. Eight minutes later, a man with straw-coloured hair and freckles had sat in front of him before holding out an enveloppe.

Inside, Harry had found a short note explaining that there was an urgent last-minute Hogwarts staff meeting and that Barty would stay with him and would bring him back to Hettie's Inn later that day. It was also written that Barty had been informed of his duties, but that he was rather laid-back and wouldn't mind wandering a bit. Harry was very excited to see more of the magical world, but...

Barty wasn't Professor Riddle. Harry had been looking forward to spending time with his new guardian and couldn't help but be a little bit disappointed.

"So, kid." The wizard in front of him said, making Harry look up from his chocolate ice cream. "Where do you want to start? I was told you had your footwear and accounts dealt with, but is it all?"

"Yes." Harry answered softly, forcibly pushing his depressed mood aside. "And I would like to look at the school bags – Professor Riddle said I could store a lot of things in them if they had the enchantment to make them bigger inside, and I wouldn't have to carry everything in my arms if I had one."

Barty laughed and Harry frowned at the reaction.

"Sorry, sorry." The other wizard apologized, his hands straightening his tie as he tried to regain his composture. "It's just... It's so _practical_. Most kids your age want their wands and couldn't care less about the rest. But maybe some Ravenclaws in the making, they go rabid on books – I'd know, I was one. Talking about books, what does your supply list looks like? I wonder what changed since I was in First Year."

Harry blinked quickly a few times, feeling a bit lost after being hit by Barty's verbal assault. Not that the man meant it like that – Harry simply wasn't used to people trying to speak over themselves and, for all that Professor Riddle could speak in lenghts, the wizard was always speaking clearly and intently. Barty seemed more the kind of person to speak about whatever was in his mind, even when his thoughts overlapped.

When his mind caught on the end of the wizard's animated speech, Harry pulled the parchment enveloppe from his robes' inner breast pocket and picked the supply list, holding it out to his watcher.

Said watcher whistled appreciatively before giving him the piece of parchment back.

"Well, I can affirm that I didn't have Tuft's book in _my_ supply list – she was in the year that came before me, you know? A Hufflepuff, I think. She had a knack to find herself into troubles, so it's no surprise she got so good at getting out of them."

Harry took his list back, giving it a quick survey before stuffing it back in his pocket – he probably knew it by heart by now, having spent most of the night studying it.

* * *

HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY

UNIFORM :

First-Year students will recquire :

Three set of plain work robes (black)

One plain pointed hat (black) for day wear

One pair of protective gloves (dragon hide or similar)

One winter cloak (black, with silver fastening)

One set of night clothes

One pair of clean footwear (black) for inside use

One pair of winter boots (black)

 _Please note that all pupil's clothes should carry name tags._

COURSE BOOKS:

All students should have a copy of each of the followings :

 _The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1)_

by Miranda Goshawk

 _Magical Theory_

by Adalbert Waffling

 _Introduction to Magical Defence_

by Adarline Tuft

 _One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi_

by Phyllida Spore

 _A History of Magic_

by Bathilda Bagshot

 _Basic Instructions for Aspiring Potionners_

by Juno McMangus

 _Compendium of Easy Potions_

by Monticus Sweeting

 _A Beginnger's Guide to Transfiguration_

by Emeric Switch

OTHER EQUIPEMENT :

1 wand

1 wand holster (suggested)

1 cauldron (pewter, standard size 2)

1 stirring stick (pewter, size 5)

1 _Kit n˚7_ (Potion ingredients)

1 set glass or crystal phials

1 basic stationery set

1 telescope

1 set brass scale

1 toiletry kit (towel, washcloth, toothbrush and hairbrush)

 _It is recommended for students to bring a bag to carry their supplies_

Students may also bring ONE SMALL pet of X or XX category (students MUST bring along the appropriate cage and accessories). Hogwarts reserves rights to REFUSE or RETURN a creature to the students' parents.

PARENTS ARE REMINDED THAT FIRST YEARS ARE NOT ALLOWED THEIR OWN BROOMSTICKS

* * *

"So, school bags, huh." The older wizard hummed. "I know there's two shops that sell them here, but one's in Knocturn Alley so that one's out. We can go check out the Marketplace first, though – sometimes, they have freelance people trying to get customers there. There's always a few artisans selling custom school things during the summer. It's a bit more expensive, but the end result is unique. How about it? Want to give it a try? If you don't like anything there, I'll show you the boutique in Diagon. How about that?"

After taking a moment to filter the information, Harry gave a nod of consent. He got a winning smile in return, before the man turned his attention back to his own dessert – something that looked like broken rainbow shards and made Harry's teeth ache from its sugary scent. Which said a lot, considering that he had lived with _Dudley_ , who considered sweets to be half of his daily diet. Of course, Harry had never been allowed many sweets, just the few treats the Dursleys had not been able to get away with not buying him on outings (Dudley's birthday at the zoo being the only occurrence in the last three years).

They finished eating mostly in silence, with Barty giving him curious looks every few seconds. It made Harry slightly uncomfortable and caused him to wonder what the man was thinking. After swallowing his last piece of ice cream (and he had noticed that, as written on the menu, the ice cream had never melt while in its cup), Harry decided to ask him why he was looking at him like that. The older wizard first looked surprised, before a smile twisted his lips.

Harry's eyes widened at the smile – for all that it looked _genuine_ , there was a dark look in those hazel eyes that made Harry feel like an insect under a magnifying glass. He suddenly understood why Professor Riddle wanted to hide him even from his friends, because Harry didn't quite felt ready to deal with more people looking at him like _that_.

"I wonder what it is about you that made my Lord want to go to such lenghts." The light brown haired man explained softly. "Simply being one of the Children of Misfortune, even if the child of prodigy Lily Evans, would never have caught his interest, let alone made him take you under his wing. So what is it about you that made him rearrange his schedule and give _me_ a day off to show you around Diagon Alley instead of another Hogwarts staff member?"

Harry started fidgeting on his seat, before forcibly stopping himself when Professor Riddle's disapproving glance flashed in his mind. He straightened his back a little, but couldn't help his hands fisting in his lap.

Despite the sudden uncomfortable attitude from the man, Harry still kinda liked him. Or, more likely, the wizard was still on the positive side of the neutral impression he had made. The reason was probably because Barty wasn't purposedly insulting him; the wizard was just curious, if a bit... _intense_ about it.

That was something else to add to his knowledge of Barty Junior : was a Ravenclaw, is book enthusiast, has sweet-tooth, hates his father, works for Professor Riddle in some manner, tries to talk over himself, _and_ possesses an intense curiosity. Well, this last point was something they had in common, then.

"I..." Harry licked his lips, staring inside his empty ice cream cup. "I lived with, er, muggles. They don't like magic much, so they never told me about it though Professor Riddle said they should have had. I don't think my aunt made a good impression, either."

The curious look faded into one of comprehension. "Aah, I understand. So, you are moving to the Orphanage? Or did a family took over your guardianship?"

Harry blinked slowly, trying to think of an appropriate answer. Professor Riddle _had_ taken his guardianship, but he couldn't say that without making Barty even more curious about him. And further explanations would get too close to implying familial ties – so he couldn't answer that directly.

But, well, it wasn't like he knew what options Professor Riddle would give him for his summer vacations. So he wasn't really lying, was he?

"I don't really know." Harry answered after a moment, shrugging for good mesure. "Professor Riddle said he'd take care of it."

Then he remembered what exactly Barty had said – he'd mentionned 'Children of Misfortune' and said that Harry was one. He hesitated, weighting pros and cons of asking questions in public, to someone that wasn't his new guardian.

But Barty saw his hesitation and asked him what it was about. Harry's eyes scanned their surroundings before he bit his lower lip.

"What are 'Children of Misfortune'?" He asked in a low voice, in case it wasn't something to be talked about in public.

Barty's eyebrows jumped high on his forehead, before he shook his head with a bitter smile.

"Ah, that." The wizard sighed. "There's no nice way of putting it, I guess. You know that your parents were murdered, right?"

Harry nodded with a frown. Yeah, he knew that. He also knew that a friend of his father betrayed his family to their murderer.

"Well, your parents were not the only ones targetted." Harry's head snapped up, his eyes wide. "Two other families, the Longbottom and Prewett, were attacked that same night – _samhain_ 1981\. The Longbottoms were tortured to insanity, while the Prewetts were killed. Your parents... Lily was found with no trace of what killed her, not even a Killing Curse. James, on the other hand, called for reinforcements and died of blood loss waiting for them. You are considered the third Child of Misfortune, along with Neville Longbottom and Octavian Prewett. Everyone knows that it wasn't the parents that were targetted, but the kids. That's why you got that name – because you supposedly brought misfortune to your families. Not that it's true, of course. That's just the old busybodies speaking."

"Oh." Was all that left Harry's mouth, a cold feeling spreading in his chest. So someone had killed his parents to get to him? His eyes narrowed at the thought and he looked up at a startled-looking Barty. "Did they find who did it?"

 _Please say no. Please say yes._

 _No_ , because then he could hunt the one(s) responsible himself.

 _Yes_ , because he didn't want his parents' murderer(s) to have lived free for years.

"Well, the murderers' bodies were found not that far. Garvin Runcorn's ashes were found in your family manor's Hall, probably thanks to your mother – she always had a gift for fire-based magic. Your father's wand showed that he gave the killing blow to Dartan Yaxley – but if you want to know more, I'm sure you could find an old copy of the _Daily Prophet_. They published a detailed timing of what the Auror Corp thought happened then. But the guy who ordered the hit? Never found him. You'd have better chance finding a goblin in the sky than that guy."

Harry nodded slowly, stocking the information away, before suddenly standing from his seat. Barty had not mentionned the traitor and probably wouldn't – Harry wasn't going to insist about it, especially since the older wizard had basically told him to research the story himself. And Harry had a long and harduous path in front of him – because he _will_ find the one who gave the orders and why he did it. Getting some practice in looking up things would only do him some good.

"We should start shopping." He murmured in explanation at Barty's surprised look when he stood, struggling to ignore the stormy emotions trying to suffocate him. "So that I'm done early."

Barty didn't seem to believe him, but humored him nonetheless. Like he had said he would, Barty guided him down Diagon Alley until they were standing in front of a crossroad – Diagon Alley continued further ahead, while Horizon Road was split in half. Horizon Road Est at their left led to a few more shops, then to appartments belonging to the Ministry that magical beings (not only wizards) could rent, as long as they had enough money. They turned right toward the Marketplace where, just like Barty had described on their way, they found a wide forest-like clearing (that shouldn't be able to exist in the middle of London, considering that some of the trees surrounding the place were more than a meter thick and were proportionally tall) full of disparate booths, some of the merchants yelling to try and get customers.

A young witch with a purple and white castle-like booth was selling jewellry while an older one, who had a face full of warts, was reading a book behind a hat-shaped booth that sold hats of all kind (including a top hat Harry wanted to destroy the moment he saw it – it was a mix of red, baby blue and yellow, was covered in feathers and glitters and had a orange bird on its flat top that opened its beak regularly to shriek horribly). As they navigated around the clearing, Harry spot a few booths that interested him and a lot more that caught his eyes for other reasons.

They ended up buying Harry's bookbag at a booth managed by a springy young wizard with golden hair. It was a dark brown leather messanger bag, the shoulder strap charmed not to sink into his flesh even if the bag grew heavy (which was a bit redundant, considering the bag itself was charmed feather-light), with what Barty called a thunderbird embroided on the flap. There were two pockets just below the flap's clasp and they closed thanks to two plain golden buttons. The bag was about 14in long, 12in high and 5in thick, but one could put about thrice as much stuff in it than if it had been muggle-made. It had been a little expensive, but worth it considering he was going to be using it for the next seven years and maybe even longer.

They left the Marketplace after that, Barty saying they could go back later for knickknacks if they still had time.

"Ollivander's right there." Barty said as they re-entered Diagon Alley. "Don't you want to get your wand now?"

"I'm not eleven yet." Harry answered softly, hoping the disappointment wasn't too obvious. "Professor Riddle said that I have to wait until my birthday."

"Ah, that's true." Barty sighed, looking a bit less cheery than his usual disposition. "Too bad, though. A wand says a lot about its owner's true nature – I wonder what kind of wand will chose you... Beech, maybe?"

Harry repressed a shiver at that. He was suddenly very, very glad that his eleventh birthday was nine days later. He did not want Barty, for all that he was pleasant most of the time, to have any kind of insight about Harry's personality. The only person Harry would feel comfortable about having one would be Professor Riddle, and again... not that big of an insight.

Years of keeping himself in check, of never speaking about himself lest the Dursleys found a weakness to exploit, made the idea of opening himself to someone else terrifying. Professor Riddle was okay, though. He was Harry's distant relative and he was the first person to ever care about his fate enough to take him away from his prison. Harry could deal with sharing a bit of private knowledge about himself if he asked.

Only if he asked, though. And hopefully not about more subjects like his scars – their discussion about his cicatrices had been brief, the man only asking to see them and even using his magic to rearrange a few things that had healed wrong. Then the man had explained how to make use of his scar-fading potion.

Once every month for one year, he'd have to pour one of the phials of potion into an average-sized bathtub full of water then soak in it for about one hour. The professor had invited him to use the bathroom in his personal quarters during the school year, saying that students didn't have access to baths unless they were either prefects, Quidditch Captains, Head Boy or Head Girl.

"The Stationer shop is right there." Barty pointed a slightly blue-coloured stone building right in front of Gringotts. "Right next to _Betty's Finest_. Not that _Betty's_ has anything to interest you – it's more of a girl's shop, gaudy jewellry for those who don't know any better and shiny trinkets to impress the guests for those who lack the magic to make them."

Harry stared at the display in _Betty's_ windows – it was full of faceted glass figures waving at the piedestrians, though what seemed to be a centaur and a big lizard were tearing into each others. A panicking clerk was trying to keep them apart, but only managed to get cut by the flying shards of glass.

"Isn't there magic that could stop them?" He asked, a suspicious frown on his brow. If they couldn't do something like that, but had spells and creams to grow warts, then there was seriously something wrong with this society.

"Of course." Barty smiled, giving the now crying clerk a condescending look. "She's either too stupid to think about using a spell, or too useless to be capable of casting the appropriate magic."

Harry gave Barty a startled look, but he was slowly realising that the wizard had very little tolerance for idiocy, as he called it, and the he was rather open with his opinion, a very harsh and shoking mix. Harry didn't know if he should admire him for it or be horrified – at least Harry had yet to be targeted by the man's sharp tongue.

Their stop at the Stationer shop was a quick one. While Harry was fascinated at the idea of ink changing color while you wrote, Barty was there to remind him of its impracticability. The older wizard also gave him advice about what kind of parchment and quills to buy and had, when Harry had asked, admitted that a portable stationery set was useful.

"But you're only a student, so you don't need something ornate." Barty added after a thoughtful silence, before pointing at a rich brown wooden chest, opened to show its cream-coloured velvet insides and the multiple sections where one could store paper, quills, inkwell, ribbons or anything else someone might need to write. " _That_ is the kind of set you buy when you have extensive correspondence, but you more likely have a few like that in your Family's storage, being a Potter and all that. _This_ ," Barty now pointed a smaller box, thin enough to pass as a book, "is something you might appreciate. Stable enough to write while in bed, but not overly fancy that you're taking ribbons and seal wax to class."

Harry did ended up buying a small stationery set, though the one he choose was covered in black leather and had his name written on it in gold letters (it had cost five more sickles to have his name embedded in the leather, but Barty had insisted that it was worth it – unlike a hand-written name, the gold was charmed resistant to alterations, so Harry wouldn't have his equipement stolen).

The stop at _Flourish and Blotts_ was a little bit longer, what with Harry having another list of books Professor Riddle had given Barty for Harry to look through. There was about twenty titles on the list, though a few comments in the professor's handwriting explained that a few tomes were basically the same thing, just written differently, so he didn't need to buy them all. With Barty's help, they were done within an hour, even with Harry doing some browsing on his own. They did realised that everything didn't exactly fit inside Harry's messanger bag, not with their previous purchases already in it, so Barty suggested that they Apparated to the inn so that Harry could put his things in his rooms before coming back.

One look at the small and narrow rows of the Apothecary had Harry agreeing, even if he utterly hated the feeling of Apparition. They left Diagon Alley for less than five minutes, then returned to purchase the rest of Harry's Hogwarts supplies.

After everything was bought, Barty took Harry back to the Marketplace with a few hours to spare before they were due to come back to the inn. They returned to the few booths that had attracted their curiosity, Barty even purchasing a few things for himself and commenting on the quality of the spellwork – or lack, in a few cases, the man wasn't shy with his criticism even within earshot of those criticized. A flash of purple eventually caught Harry's eye and he turned his head.

And promptly fell in love.


	6. Chapter 6

_Hello!_

 _Hey, how are you doing? Nice weather, wherever you are? Tch, it's been raining for two weeks where I am. And it's summer, but it's freaking **cold**._

 _Anyway, you're not here to hear about the weather (at least I hope not, because you're very much at the wrong place), so let's get going with the important stuff. I do think I must put a **WARNING** about stereotypical jocks-style bullying at the end of the chapter. Seriously, it's so cliché-American-high-school-movies I cringe everytime I read it (or maybe that's just me and my dramaqueen tendencies, I'm too far gone to tell at this point) and feel like apologising._

 _So, do I have anything else to say? Um... Well, there is one thing, apart from me not owning this whole Harry Potter thing : to those of you who have been wondering what exactly is the purple thing that Harry fell in love with, we are starting off with it right away!_

 _Enjoy!_

* * *

 _7:12 AM, July 24_ _th_ _, 1991, Hettie's Inn, Room 26_

Adoring green eyes behind thin, black-framed glasses looked at the tiny lilac body in his hand, the delicate-looking but strong and thick spines covering the animal's back slightly poking his palm in wariness. Harry didn't hold it against her, they didn't know each others well after all. And she was still a baby, only being five weeks old and just strong enough to be able to be separated from her mother. She was lying on her back, staring at him with curiosity mixed with uneasiness.

Looking much like a hedgehog (actually, the little lady's species had been called 'spadehog', because of said resemblance to the non-magical animal and the slim and twelve centimeters long satan-like tail currently twitching in his hand), the creature had two pearly white globes for eyes and a cute little pointy snout. Her legs and belly were covered by soft lilac fur, not that she was showing it now as she was curled up on herself with only her small face showing.

Still, Harry had seen her walk and her legs ended in pale paws with sharp long and curved claws, made more to climb trees than to walk on a flat surface. He had also seen her tiny white teeth, a wet shine on them exposing the venom she could produce – it was a light venom, all things considered, one that was used to make a few antidotes at that, and would only cause a local analgesia for a few hours depending on the spadehog's age. For exemple, should someone had the tip of their finger bitten, they would loose all sensations in their hand and their wrist would feel slightly unresponsive (or so the pamphlet that came with the spadehog said). And because spadehogs were usually peaceful creatures, they were only categorized XX by the Ministry despite clearly having the potential to be XXX (or so he thought after reading the Creatures Section of _Laws and Regulations_ , a book Barty had insisted he bought).

But Harry wasn't going to protest too much, because being a XX creature meant that Harry could bring his new love to Hogwarts. He had already bought her a very luxurious cage (3 levels, half of the bottom one with a self-cleaning, temperature-regulated pool and a small sloping log stuck to a wall so that his darling could climb to other floors) and tons of toys. The female spadehog had already claimed a starfish-shaped water toy as her favorite, but she had yet to actually leave the pool on her own whenever she was in her cage for other than eat, sleep and defecate and Harry was sure she had not seen, even less played with, most of the other toys.

And now it was bonding time, with his sweetheart acting shy and Harry not wanting to upset her. He also had to find a name for her, but she had rejected all of those he had proposed.

...well, 'rejected'. She had hissed at every name he had come up with, clearly understanding him despite the pamphlet claiming that the species had minor intelligence. But she could tell how much he adored her, because she had not bitten him even once (while she had attempted to bite Barty when the wizard had tried to pet her), only letting her displeasure known by hissing or sticking out her spines.

"How about Aphrodite? She's the Greek goddess of love and beauty." An hiss and Harry tried again. "Or Cleopatra – a beautiful Egyptian Queen." Another hiss. "Shiva, the..." _Hissss_. "Okay, then. Is it that you don't like famous name?" Silence, which he took as a mark of acquiescence. "I see. A name of your very own, I suppose that would be nice to have. There are thousands of Harrys, you know?"

The spadehog stayed silent, though she did started to unfold. Harry very carefully touched an emerging left front paw with his pinkie, smiling when she pushed against it without curling her tiny fingers and digging her long claws into his flesh. She was trying not to hurt him, fully aware that he would not hurt her either.

Whatever idiot claimed that spadehogs were not smart needed to have their brain checked. Or maybe not, since he wouldn't have been able to bring her with him to Hogwarts if it hadn't been for the mentally defective wizard's wrong deduction.

…and that was probably Barty rubbing off on him. Oh, well, it wasn't as if it was untrue anyway.

"So what kind of name would you like? Something funny? Short? Serious?" When his suggestions were hissed at, his lips curled into a teasing smile. "Something a little bit more dement, then?"

The purr the spadehog made caused Harry to pause for a second. She had never made such a sound before and he had not thought that she even could make something like that. She had made guttural noises before when playing and had even squeaked when she had first fell into her personal pool (before she had decided that bathing was her new favorite thing to do), but he had thought that it was it.

Now he very much wanted to make her purr again. It meant that she was happy and that was all Harry wanted for his little love.

"You want to be called Dement?" He guessed, making her purr again. "How about Dementia, then – isn't it more ladylike?"

A pause, then the newly named Dementia started purring again. Harry's smile went slightly goofy as he caressed her exposed belly and throat, feeling the soft vibration of her contentment against the pulp of his forefinger. Had his love had eyelids, Harry was sure her eyes would be half-lidded in pleasure at the caress. Her four little legs stretched above her and clawed gently as his finger, a silent plea for him to continue his petting.

He happily obliged until she had enough, after which she demanded to be sent to her cage so that she could go play in her pool. He also freshened the water in the bottle clipped to her cage, then filled her bowl with raw meat, worms and ant eggs. Spadehogs were necrophage, in that they could eat decomposed and/or diseased meat without issues, but they also ate the eggs of a few insects and had a strong appetite for small pests and bugs that would infest wood. The creatures also liked alcohols, could eat cereals, fruits and nuts, but, for some reasons, hated roots of any kind – not that it was toxic to them, even some poisonous plants weren't harmful to spadehogs (their venom was used in antidotes for _reasons_ ), but they just didn't like them.

Now that Harry thought about it, there wasn't much Dementia couldn't consume. He had been discouraged to feed her fresh seafood (though cooked or rotting seafood was fine, apparently), but only because it wasn't a part of a spadehog's normal diet. Candies and chocolate would make her hyper and gain weight quickly, but otherwize it would be digested without problems.

Harry smiled a bit when he saw Dementia play with her squeaky starfish. She would hit it with her snout or paw to make it float away, then throw herself at it to try to drown it, grunting happily when it would resurface and doing it all over again.

He was startled out of watching Dementia play by knocks on his door. His new friend paused for a second, only returning to her game when she saw him stand up. Harry, knowing who was behind the door, put a timid smile on his lips and tried to keep the shudders away – Madam Hettie was very nice and he couldn't complain about how she had been treating him, but he was slow to trust her. He was closer to her twenty years old daughter, Meredith Marlowe.

He knew that it wasn't Meredith on the other side of the door because she usually was busy serving at the tables for breakfast. Madam Hettie didn't have more free time (chatting with the owner was one of the main attractions of the inn if Harry had understood it right), but she was most likely to be the one leaving the dining room.

Like he had thought, Madam Hettie was standing outside the doorway with a small smile on her lips. She had a tray in her hand that she held out to him.

"Hello sweetheart, here's your breakfast." She said with a gentle voice, her hazel eyes shining compassionately. "Take your time eating, alright? You can bring it down when you're finished."

Harry nodded and thanked her politely, before closing the door with his foot and putting the tray on the desk on which Dementia's cage was. His heart was pounding in his chest and his hands were trembling a bit, though he had managed to hide it from the inn's owner.

He didn't know how to react to adults acting all _nice_ to him. It made him look for a hidden motive, only making him more nervous when he couldn't see one.

And that was the reason why he was more at ease with Meredith than with her mother. Meredith was a mix of mischeviousness and authority he had never seen elsewhere. She had swept through his defences with humor and childishness, before taking advantage of his emotional unbalance to blackmail him into relying on her when he needed help or advice. He didn't know exactly how she had done it, but he prefered her to Madam Hettie's plain _gentleness_.

He had not had problems with Professor Riddle or Barty, mostly because the first demanded order and respect just by existing and the other had shadows of something dangerous and restless lingering in his eyes that had kept Harry on his guard all day. Not mentionning that neither could really be call gentle, even if they had cared, in a way, about Harry – Professor Riddle cared because they were related and Barty had cared because it had been part of his job. Their motives had been clear to Harry, easing a few of his worries.

"I don't like people." Harry told Dementia, who bit feriously into her starfish and made it squeak loudly. It was charmed to resist repeated abuse, so the spadehog's sharp teeth left no mark on the toy. "They make me nervous. You're so much better."

Dementia snorted when her nose got underwater. Harry smiled tightly, before turning to his English-style breakfast. He gathered some baked beans on his fork and swallowed them quickly – they were _not_ his favorite part of this kind of breakfast, so he ate them first to get rid of them.

He gave a suspicious look at the pumpkin juice on his tray, then downed the last of the beans with a mouthful of the drink. Like he had thought, the two didn't tasted so good togheter. He'd have to make another experiment the next day.

Anything to chase the taste of baked beans from his mouth.

He watched Dementia play for a little bit longer before she got tired and went to sleep in her cave-like bed. Just like regular hedgehogs, spadehogs prefered to sleep during the day in their den. Mornings and evenings were when Harry and Dementia would have most of their bonding time, but it didn't bothered him – considering he'd spend most of his days in class, another pet would probably have grown bored inside their cage. And the cage had been sold with barriers against sounds, among other things so Dementia wouldn't wake him up during the night (his mind had flashed to Dudley when he had purchased the spadehog and to what his cousin would have done to his new pet if he had gotten a chance – the security and enchantments on Dementia's cage had made Barty raise an eyebrow, before the man had given a few advices. It had cost a pretty penny, but that's what his personal vault was there for).

He took the time to savour the rest of his breakfast, the wonders of having enough food to satiate his hunger still trumming in his chest. He also made a point of eating everything in his plate, just because he could – there was no Dudley to steal his food, no Petunia to 'accidentally' knock her drink into his plate, no Vernon to say that his behaviour wasn't good enough to be rewarded with food and no _Marge_ to 'misunderstand' and give his dinner to her dog. And since he had always be eating leftovers, he didn't got seconds.

After he finished, he went to the kitchen to give the working house-elf (and hadn't it been a shock to realise that witches and wizards had _willing_ slaves!) his dirty tray and compliment the food (making the elf blush in happiness), before rushing back to his room without anyone seeing him. He opened his trunk and took a random book out of it, propping himself against the pillows of his twin-sized bed to read.

He didn't particularly like reading, but it was about magic so it was a bit better than just math or grammar. The book he had taken was _Basic Instructions for Aspiring Potionners_ and it described the process of making a potion – it was rather dry and Harry caught his thoughts wandering a few times, but otherwize it was very fascinating. It reminded him of the experiments done in his elementry school, even if he had never managed to make one himself thanks to the other children's sabotage and the teachers' favoritism.

He hoped people at Hogwarts wouldn't be mean to him. They shouldn't, because there was no one he knew in the Magical World who would want to ruin his reputation early, but Harry wasn't allowing himself to hope too much. Bad things happened when Harry _really_ wanted something, and they were not always the aftermath of 'accidental magic', as Meredith had explained.

Then again, the Dursleys were gone from his life. Maybe other things would start to make his life better, too.

He read for a two hours, until his head was hot and he couldn't make sense of what he was reading anymore. He then put the book back in his trunk, giving Dementia a last look to ensure she was still sleeping, before slipping out of his room and toward the inn's counter.

Madam Hettie saw him and offered him a sweet smile, one he returned awkwardly.

"Hello, sweetheart." She greeted him. "Can I do something for you?"

He blinked quickly, trying to reign in his nervosity.

"I, um..." He licked his lips, his brain trying to construct something to say that wouldn't sound weird. "I'm a bit thirsty. I wondered what there was to drink, so..."

Madam Hettie nodded, her smile never leaving her face as she bent down and pulled a small menu from under the counter. She held it out to him, then spoke again.

"You can get anything you want, don't worry about money, it's included in the price for your room. Lunch will begin shortly, but if you're hungry right now I can make you something real quick that you can bring to your room if you want."

"Thank you, but I'm not very hungry." Harry replied softly. He looked down on the menu, read quickly and choose the first thing that looked remotely familiar. "May I have some lemonade, please?"

"Coming right up." Madam Hettie cheered before walking away and toward the kitchen, leaving Harry to try and not fidget in the admittedly not very populated room. There were still people though, and they were talking while looking at him, only diverting their attention when Madam Hettie came back with his glass. "Here you go, honey. You can wait and bring the glass down with your dinner later if you want."

"Thank you, Madam Hettie." His lips twisted in a small smile before he hurried away, not quite running (because that was rude), but not slow enough to be called 'walking'.

Back to his room, Harry sat down in front of the tiny window and watched the traffic outside, occasionally sipping his lemonade – his room faced the muggle side of the tiny shopping area Hettie's Inn was the 'front door' of, one called End of Road. There were only a couple of shops (including Fletwock's Footwear), most of the seventeen buildings of the area were selling services instead of items : there was a hairdresser, a tattoo-slash-piercing parlour, a spa, a travelling and an estate agencies, on top of the few he did not know about. There were not many people frequenting End of Road, at least not at this hour. Harry knew that the hairdresser was popular in the mornings and evenings, but he had not been staying at the Inn long enough to notice the traffic. It wasn't like it interested him much, either.

Knocks on his door startled him and he would have spilt his juice had his glass not already been empty. He was about to stand when the door opened, revealing a tall black-haired girl with pale green eyes – but where Harry's were a vibrant emerald green, Meredith's were a light apple green in colour.

He had stared when he had first met her, never having seen anyone else with an eyecolour of any shade of green before, but she had seemed to understand his thought process and had complimented his coloring over hers. Horrified that she would believed that he found her eyes ugly, he had complimented her back, stuttering and panicking while Madam Hettie had looked at them with an amused little smile.

Meredith had laughed at his compliment, teasing him about being a flatterer, before ordering him to put his things away in his room so that they could eat lunch. Before he knew what was happening, he was speaking with her about what he had seen at the Marketplace, making her laugh when he mentionned the atrocious screeching hat, then coo at him as he explained how he found his dear spagehog.

"Hi there, Harry!" She exclaimed, smiling widely at him. "I'm going to Diagon Alley to do a few purchases, do you want to come with me? End of Road doesn't have a good Apothecary and I need salamander tails for the potion I'm brewing tonight. We'll have to be back before the lunch rush of course, but I have some free time right now and I thought you'd like to get out a little?"

Harry gave the sleeping Dementia a look before accepting Meredith's invitation with a nod. She cheered, pulling an umbrella from one of her gold and black robes' inner pockets and holding it out to him. He accepted it with a small smile, before sliding his feet out of his slippers and into the transfigured shoes Professor Riddle had made him.

"So, Apparition or Floo today?" Meredith wondered with a mischevious smile, before smirking at him. "I know! We'll work on your Flooing technique, how about it? You never Flooed before, right?"

"Right." He repeated, following the witch as she walked down the stairs. "Is it complicated?"

She waved her hand, dismissing his worries, then gave him a reassuring smile above her shoulder. "Not at all! Just a bit confusing. You have to throw Floo powder in the fire, call your destination _very clearly_ – I had a classmate who had a terrible lisp, he couldn't Floo if his life depended on it – and then walk through the fire. You don't _step into_ the fire, you _walk through_. If you stop walking, the Floo will spit you out on the other end. You'll probably feel like you're spinning, but after three or four steps you'll be on the other side."

He frown, then had the bad idea of looking up at the moment the fireplace flared and a wizard walked out of it. He jumped back at the fire's roar, feeling uneasy at the idea of _walking into the fire_. Because fire _burned_. And he was well-acquainted with burns, considering that a drunk Vernon usually thought it a great idea to put out his cigar with Harry's flesh and that no one thought it was worth it to spare oven mitts for the _freak_ , lest he contaminated them.

Meredith saw his reaction and lowered her hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently after he flinched at the contact. She never commented on his reactions, however, and seemed happy to ignore them.

"The Floo powder removes any burning property from the fire." She informed him gently. "It _looks_ like fire, but it's actually a portal you have to unlock with both light and whatever there is in the powder that makes it special. The only reason we still use fire instead of another source of light is because wizards are a bunch of traditionalists – if it still works fine, it will do for a few more centuries."

She grimaced comically as she said that and he couldn't help but smile.

"Thank you." He said.

Meredith gave him a wide smile, before removing her hand from his shoulder and walking toward the fireplace.

"How about you go first?" She suggested. "If anything goes wrong I'll be able to follow you. Not that something wrong will happen." She was quick to add when she saw his worried look. "But as a precaution, you know? Just in case."

Harry agreed – he _did_ felt better knowing someone could help him if something went wrong – and took a pinch of Floo powder before throwing in into the fireplace, just like he was instructed to. He mentally reviewed the next instructions, to call out his destination then walk and continue walking until he was outside of the portal, before doing just that.

"Diagon Alley!" He cried out as the fire flared green, before walking in. He flinched when something warm touched his legs, but continued to move his legs as if he was walking even though it didn't look like he was moving at all. The spinning around him was making him feel a bit sick and he was glad his breakfast was a few hours old, because he wasn't sure it would have stayed in his stomach otherwize. And he had no desire to taste those horrid baked beans _again_.

He almost walked right into a tall wizard when he exited the fireplace. The man was shouting at someone else, his caramel-colored hair rigthly styled and his clothes pristine. Harry tripped to the side to avoid the wizard, but ended up falling on the ground. Someone who looked like he was the wizard's son, if the identical blond hair and hairstyle was anything to go by and who couldn't be much older than Harry, openly laughed at him with two other boys.

Cheeks flaming and his mood suddenly crushed, Harry was quick to stand up and dust his clothes. For some reason, it made the boys laugh harder and Harry prayed for Meredith to hurry up. He had enough experience with Dudley's gang to know that words and laughter quickly escalated into physical intimidation and he had no desire to know if the wall looked as uncomfortable as it looked.

"Look at that, Islay!" The son guffawed, acting as if Harry was not _standing there_ and could not _very well hear him_. But he knew that bullying technique well; it was used to make people feel like outsiders.

"I know, Cormac!" 'Islay', a boy with a large jaw but otherwize small face, roared back. "Do you think he stole those clothes? He looks like a street rat!"

"Must be a Muggleborn." The third boy, who had brown hair and eyes hidden by glasses with gold frames, said with a solemn nod, before dissolving into snickers. "Thinking he could fit in better if he dressed like a proper wizard."

"Hey, hey, a wizard?" 'Cormac' sniggered. "Are you sure? It looks like a witch to me!"

Harry felt his raising tension drop when the fireplace flared green and a familiar figure stepped out gracefully. The wizard was however still standing right in front of the exit and Meredith walked right into him, her longer legs not allowing her to make a last-second shift in direction. The wizard turned around with a furious look on his face, dismissing his current argument to sneer down at Meredith.

It gave Harry a good look on his face – and yes, he probably was Cormac's father, they looked like twins bar the skin tone and nose.

"Watch where you're walking, witch!" The man snapped, the tendons in his neck growing even more distinct.

Meredith gave the man a look that Harry immediately dubbed as a 'Don't Piss Me Off' Look and his eyes widened when he saw it. The three boys next to him were watching the disturbance with gleeful looks, probably thinking that Meredith would be an easy prey.

Harry knew that she wasn't. Call it instinct, but he knew that Meredith would end up victorious. Later, he would learn that Meredith called it her 'Badger Spirit' – he would laugh nervously and she would grin back, totally unrepentant.

But when, the next evening, Meredith asked him to accompany her to deliver her mother's homemade products, he agreed again. Because for all that he seemed to be surrounded by scary people, an angry Meredith was fascinating to watch.

It was the beginning of Harry's 'Assistant Job' at Hettie's Inn, where Meredith would take him out with her everytime she had commissions to run outside the inn. And it might have taken a bit of time, but he realised that people staring at him didn't bothered him as much as it used to – he suspected that it had been Meredith's ultimate goal in making him do all those chores with her.

Meredith was _really_ scary.

* * *

 _PS: I could've put this at the top, but I didn't want to ruin the surprise and I am in the mood to share, so suffer (or do something else, if reading hurts you, honestly...). I was going through the Order of the Pheonix, so I eventually stumbled upon Harry's visit in Snape's memories and got the inspiration for Cormac and Cie's scene from the Marauders' attitudes. The only reason I chose Cormac for the bully role is because he fits so well : self-important, immature, but not really malicious by my standards (Rowling just made it too easy with that one)._


	7. Chapter 7

_Hello. How the day's been treating you? Good or hopefully nothing worse than boring. Well, anyway, here's some entertainment for you!_

 _So, writing this chapter has_ _been like pulling teeth from a rabid pirana (is that even possible? Hell, I hope not, that would be scary), not mentionning extremely **boring** as well, so forgive me if this feels a bit patchy. Next chapter is Harry's birthday and I've planned a few interesting things, even if I've only just written the last words of this chapter and nothing of the next is down yet._

 _Mmm... I don't own Harry Potter and I guess some WARNINGS about hints of Gary Stu-like wealth and people making others drunk for fun? Oh, and for people uneasy with same-sex romances of any kind, better look out, Harry's crush is becoming more obvious._

* * *

 _4:48 PM, July 30_ _th_ _, 1991, Hettie's Inn, Room 26_

Harry was excited. No, more like _very truly really_ excited. Professor Riddle was coming to get him and Harry was going to stay at his home for _three days_ and _four nights_. In the man's first letter, after he had replied to every points Harry had brought up in his own two letters, he had said that he was in the process of cleaning what would become Harry's room and that his house would be ready by Harry's birthday. Should Harry be willing, it was written, then Professor Riddle could come and fetch him on July 30th for a three-days stay, during which they could spend time together. Harry would have to return to Hettie's Inn on August 3rd, because the professor had commitments later in the afternoon and the three following days were booked tightly, but it didn't bothered Harry. He had sent his reply as quickly as he could while not making his handwriting any worse than it already was. Meredith had him working on that already (ever since he had complained to her about not being able to write with a quill), but there had been no real progress as of yet. He mostly reduced the number of ink blots he made, and, God, had he made a lot of them!

Looking at his packed trunk and at the sleeping Dementia, Harry pondered about what he could do – his watch, that Barty had insisted on him buying at the Marketplace, told him that there was still ten more minutes before Professor Riddle was expected to arrive. To him, it was still an eternity away.

Harry had already said his goodbyes, Meredith going as far as hug him tightly and joke that she would miss her assistant during those three days. He knew that she truly meant it and he had realised that he would miss her too, even if he had only known her for one week. She had made him promise to tell her everything he did when he came back, even if he knew that he would have to be careful not to mention that Professor Riddle was the person he would be staying with – she thought that the wizard was only doing Harry's relative a favour by Apparating Harry to his home. Which wasn't exactly untrue, if you put it as if the professor was doing himself a favour…

Looking down at his watch, Harry saw that only two minutes had passed. He sighed, then decided that he would be waiting for the professor downstairs – so he grabbed his things and pulled them after him, only stopping a moment to look at his room. It was still his for the rest of the summer, so no one would be occupying it in his absence. Which, he supposed, made him feel a little bit better, and allowed him to leave the books Meredith had lent him in it. He had felt uncomfortable at the idea of bringing them at the professor's home, even if the woman had told him that he was free to bring them at Hogwarts. She had no use for basic Charms manuals, she had told him with a wink.

He smiled as he arrived at the bottom of the stairs, heading toward an empty table next to which he put his things, before sitting on one of the chairs. When he had told Meredith how easy Charms sounded to him and how he had devoured the school's textbook in one evening (from five o'clock to midnight, but it had been _fascinating_ ), she had decided to 'nurture his talent' with additional material. She had also promised to help him in Transfiguration, which sounded like nonsense to him, even if she also had little interest in it. Apparently, Charms and Transfiguration were such different magics that they both demanded very distinct mindsets, so someone with a gift in either one would most likely have difficulties with the other.

Professor Riddle had also proposed to go over the basis of magic with him while Harry stayed at his house and to help him in the subjects he had more problems with. He was still hesitating about the offer for help, wondering if the Transfiguration teacher at Hogwarts would be good enough at making things clearer. Should he take the chance? He really didn't want to disappoint Professor Riddle, but he would be incapable of looking at the wizard in the eye if he refused the help and failed the class. Meredith had barely passed her Transfiguration O.W.L. with an Acceptable, so she could explain a few things, but hardly everything.

Harry was startled out of his thoughts when the fireplace flared, a tall and elegant man stepping out of the fire with such ease one could have thought he had walked in the room through the door. Harry was a bit envious at the display, recalling his own flailing every time he used the Floo – he had yet to 'land' on the other side on his two feet, even with the practice he had gotten in the last few days.

"Good afternoon, Mr Potter." Professor Riddle greeted him as he walked toward him. Harry stood up, offering the wizard a wide smile.

"Good afternoon, Professor." Harry replied eagerly.

"I see that you are ready to leave?" Harry said 'yes', after which the professor waved his wand at his belongings to make them float off the ground. "Then please follow me. Your cobbler will want to make sure that everything fits, so we will be there for a few minutes before we can depart."

His trunk and Dementia's cage following behind them, Harry walked with Professor Riddle to the back of Hettie's Inn, then through the door (there wasn't a moving wall at the inn, mostly because the End of Road was not opened to muggles, even those with magical children) leading to the small shopping district. They quickly headed for Fenlock's Footwear, where Harry was immediately assaulted by the shoemaker for twenty minutes, before Professor Riddle had enough of the other wizard's dilly-dallying and pulled Harry out of the shop and toward a bare area he Apparated them from.

And then they were standing before the professor's home. As soon as he recovered from the trip, Harry looked up and couldn't help but gape unattractively at the sight.

It was a _castle_! A real, life-sized medieval _castle_! With a stone bridge above an 8-shaped pond and at least six tall towers. There was a thick dark forest covering the castle's left and a clearly well-cared for, maze-like garden bigger than a football field on its right. The castle and gardens were surrounded by a large cobblestone ring (large enough to accommodate at least three cars side by side!), which the also cobblestone path starting from the bridge cut into and continued inside to lead to the massive wooden front doors. The sides of the path, which Harry hesitated to call a front lawn, was covered in smooth loose pale stones, probably making walking on it difficult despite being very pleasing to the eye.

The castle itself had three stories, though the towers had at least two more and the left wing of the building was four-stories tall. Everything was made of dark blue-grey stone, but the wall facing the garden was covered in some kind of climbing plant and added some pretty colours to the whole picture thanks to the pale blue, white and yellow spots that Harry guessed were big flowers.

"I purchased the land when I was thirty-one." Professor Riddle said after a moment, looking at Harry's awed expression with gratification. "The castle was in a horrible state of disrepair when I first arrived, but my two house-elves were eager for the challenge and managed to get it back to its former glory. I had to modify the structure for modern use and redo the garden's plans in their entirety, but it was done within the year. I named it Broken Bridge."

The professor offered no explication for the name and Harry asked for none, giving the perfectly standing bridge a puzzled look, then dismissing the link. His guardian would explain it to him when, or if, he wanted, though the intensity with which the man had spoken the castle's name had not been lost on Harry and it was certainly too personal to share – even if the secrecy had him burning with the desire to know.

Harry had, as far as he could remember, always wanted to know the workings of the world, mostly because it had offered him some sort of control he had otherwise been deprived of at the Dursley's. He highly disliked having to interact with people, but he loved watching them and wondering why they acted in a way as opposed as to another. It had started as a necessity to limit the hurt he had suffered from, to find the appropriate gestures so that he would be overlooked, but it quickly became a hobby the moment he realised that he _liked_ picking people apart. He was no Sherlock Holmes, had no particular talent for deductions, but years of watching had sharpened his eyes for small details.

Still, he didn't need any of his abilities to understand the ' _don't ask_ ' aura he was being hit with. It was different from Vernon's ' _don't ask or I'll hit you_ ' or some of his old teachers' ' _I will ignore your questions, I don't have time for idiots'_ – there was no threat, just like there was no expectation that someone would be stupid enough not to obey. Harry wasn't stupid, for all that people, the _muggles_ , liked to tell him that he was. He simply had nothing to win from showing off his intelligence as nobody liked it when he had good grades – but that was all in the past. He would very much prefer to stay in Professor Riddle's good graces, and he was pretty sure _that_ meant getting good grades. Harry certainly didn't want the man to think that he was an idiot. He wanted Professor Riddle to be _proud_ of him, not so ashamed that they'd never get to the point of claiming blood ties.

"There are 125 rooms in Broken Bridge – most are private apartments, but there are at least twenty recreation rooms, including a library – so you will likely get lost easily if you are not careful. The forest ends over a cliff and has its share of potentially dangerous magical creatures and plants, so I would rather you did not enter it alone. You might also find fairies living in the garden, so take care to keep your belongings close to you at all time – fairies are known thieves and like to play 'pranks' on people, when they are not acting shy. There are stables and greenhouses behind the building, as well as a private house a friend of mine uses during the school year – it used to be a chapel, but I remodelled it, and my friend takes care of things here while I am living at the school. I am not connected to the Floo Network, so transport will be either by Apparition or Portkey. Speaking of which…"

The older wizard pulled a small object from his pocket, holding it out to Harry who took it shyly. Closer inspection told him that it was a small ring with a thick gold band and a large black flat stone set in a simple, but elegant rectangular setting. The metal was smooth and warm as Harry caressed it with his thumb and he looked up at his guardian with curiosity.

"What you are holding is a signet ring." The wizard informed him. "Most wizards and witches have them, noble or not, to seal their private and professional correspondence – some, often the richest families, also have a family ring, in the possession of the Head of the family, that they use for the more official business. The one you have here is blank, but you may choose a design for your personal seal and we will register it later at the Ministry. In the meantime, it acts as an emergency Portkey – if you are lost, hurt or in danger, you need only to say 'save me, home' in Parseltongue and it will bring you here as well as informing me that you arrived. It might not work in Hogwarts or in Gringotts, but it will still send me a distress signal and your position so that I can come to fetch you. It is important that you do _not_ loose it – I would advice that you wear it at all time, even in the bath, either on a chain around your neck or on your finger. It is spelled against damages, so you need not to worry about breaking it."

"Thank you." Harry said with a wide smile, before slipping the ring on his left index finger. His eyes widened when the ring shrunk to the right size, fitting his finger like it had been made on him. "It's great! I'll always keep it on."

"Good. Now, it nearly is time for dinner. I will show you your rooms and let you unpack, then send my house elf to fetch you when the food is ready. I will give you the full tour after dinner."

It took a whole seven minutes before they stood in front of Harry's new apartments (apparently, he had _apartments_ : a bedroom, a bathroom, a little office/living room area and a walk-in closet that deserved the title of 'room' thanks to its immense size… because you could have fit the Dursleys' living room in that so-called closet). The 'family suites', which was what Harry would be living in during his stay, were situated in the left wing on the third floor, but most of them were closed to Harry as they were mainly used for storage of dangerous magical artefacts – the only rooms that had not been put to that use were the two nurseries, due to the large windows in one and the other one, which was joined to the professor's apartments, had been turned into an artificial habitat for his familiar.

Unpacking was easy, since he wasn't really planning to spread his things around – he would only be using the room for four nights, after all, and would be leaving on August 3rd. The first thing he did was put Dementia's cage on a pedestal that seemed especially made for this function, the little lady having slept peacefully through the awful feeling of Apparition (Harry wondered if she even felt it, the lucky girl). He then put his clothes away in the walk-in 'closet', which had a wardrobe with smaller drawers where he could put his underwear, socks and pyjamas in. He left most of his school supplies in his trunk, that he left at the feet of the bed, and was wondering what to do with his many pairs of shoes (the boots having been left in the trunk) when he heard the knocks on his door.

Knowing that his unpacking time was over, Harry straightened his clothes and hurried toward the door, opening it and looking down at the small creature standing in front of him. The big bulbous eyes and large ears looked almost comical, but Harry had never forgotten the sharp teeth he had glimpsed the one time Hettie's Inn's elf had spoken to him.

"Dinner bes ready." The creature told him helpfully, before taking a step back and gesturing to the corridor. "Master says you bes following Hoozy to dinner room."

"Sure." Harry responded, slipping out of his new room and following the house elf as the short creature led him through the stone corridors. The 'private dining room', where he was apparently going to eat his meals during his stay, was situated back on the first floor and they took two new sets of stairs down (though Harry would swear that they were not the same Professor Riddle had taken to show him his room, even if they were very similar) as well as turned in five different corridors – it was as if the castle was trying to loose them.

They did eventually reached the private dining room, where Professor Riddle was waiting, reading the _Evening Prophet_ while seated at the head of the table. It made Harry wonder what time it was, because the evening newspaper only arrived at Hettie's Inn at six and a half and surely it wasn't so late already?

Dinner was a quiet affair, the silence only broken by the tic of the old clock hanging on the wall. It would have made Harry nervous had he not already known that most conversation topics of the day would be covered during the tour – as such, there wasn't much to discuss right now.

Under the expecting look of his new guardian, Harry made sure to pile an appropriate amount of vegetables in his plate and kept himself from taking a third serving of dessert – everything on the table were some of his favourite foods, which made controlling his consumption more difficult, but it also made Harry realise that Professor Riddle must have kept tabs on him through Madam Hettie. While it made him slightly uncomfortable to know that Meredith had probably also been reporting to him through her mother, he was slightly giddy at the thought that the professor cared enough to learn his favourite food. Even if he could just have asked him, but he probably just wanted to surprise him.

Or maybe he had expected Harry to tell him his preferences himself, but when he had not he had asked Madam Hettie? He could ask Professor Riddle about it, of course, but wouldn't it come out as suspicious and ungrateful?

Harry was anything but ungrateful, especially to that particular man. So he didn't ask and finished eating in silence.

"Are you done?" The professor asked as Harry prodded a bit of leftover chocolate icing in his plate. He nearly dropped his fork in his eagerness, but reminded himself in time to stay calm and simply replied with a soft 'yes'. It made his new guardian smile. "Good. Now, if you would follow me, I will show you around."

Harry did. The first thing he learnt was that, _indeed_ , the rooms in the castle tended to switch around, but mostly stayed on their original floor, and that this was why every doors were slightly different (so that people could tell which room was where without looking inside). Professor Riddle explained that this phenomenon was a side-effect of a few spells he had used during the castle's restoration, but that he had liked it and decided not to correct it – that the ever-changing layout was an additional security and that there was no such thing as too much security.

It did made the tour a bit useless, but Harry still made sure to memorize the important doors and to know the signs of a locked one (which was a reddish circle above the door knob, but even if he missed it he wouldn't be able to open the door anyway). They visited the first floor's kitchen, where Harry met Tami, the house elf responsible for cooking meals, as well as Donny, the one who took care of the gardens and greenhouses, before finding the ballroom and the smaller party room. The next door they found was the one to the two-stories high library (despite it only occupying the first floor), but Harry was warned that some of the books did not have good tempers and would either scream or bite him if they were in a bad mood. Harry burnt the knowledge of the shelves where the most 'docile' books were into his brain, even with his guardian assuring him that he had warded those with the more dangerous books in his possession – he'd rather not take chances.

They made a brief stop in the basement (that was mostly locked up) to see the indoor pool Harry was invited to make use of and a cool stone room where Professor Riddle had made another garden for his plants that couldn't grow outside of dark caves (there even was a small pond in a corner, but Harry had decided against approaching it because of the tentacle-like plant crawling around it and pulling what looked like a dead rabbit into the water).

After that, the professor opened the door to what Harry had thought was a broom cupboard, but instead led to a narrow staircase that climbed straight to the second floor of the castle. There Harry saw multiples entertainment rooms: drawing rooms (there were _seven_ of them, split between sizes and 'private', 'business' and 'casual' intended company), tea rooms (that Harry figured was just another name for more drawing rooms), game rooms (one of which Harry would never dare to enter on his own, because there were a _crystal_ chess set and _gems_ -encrusted _marble_ dices on display and who even _made_ those anyway?), and smoking rooms (his new guardian explained that the two rooms were actually bars, one for lighter cocktails and another for rougher drinks, but that it was just not proper to call it a 'drinking' or 'alcohol' room). There was also a room that looked very similar the nurse's office at Harry's old school, only with more cabinet place, and it was linked to a bigger room with four small white beds that he was told was more often used for guests who drank too much than anything else.

His guardian actually _laughed_ when Harry asked whether Barty visited the infirmary often, before explaining that his younger associate _did_ drink a lot, more because his friends would refill his glass whenever he was focused on something else rather than alcoholism, and that it had become a sort of running gag in their circle. Harry didn't really get it, but didn't ask for explanations so they moved on to the rest of the visit.

Which just brought them back to the third floor, where only Harry's room was open to him and was incidentally the last part of the castle he could explore by himself. The few rooms that composed the fourth floor were used for the professor's many experiments, the man explained, or for storage.

Apparently, Professor Riddle was a collector, but one that didn't have a particular focus of interest. Anything that caught his eye would end up in his collection, whether it was valuable or not – it reminded Harry a bit of Dudley, if Dudley could ever remember everything that he had once owned, but he didn't think his new guardian would want something simply because someone else had one. If Harry was to guess, he'd rather think that the wizard would rather _not_ own the same thing as anyone else. Not for bragging rights, not really, but more because it interested him and not the world.

Professor Tom Riddle was not a man among others. Harry couldn't tell if it was his admiration or maybe his immense gratitude speaking, but he found the man who had saved him as a powerful, unique and one-of-a-kind individual. He was the greatest person Harry had ever had the chance to meet – he felt like no one else would ever manage to compare to him – and his greatness was inspiring.

Harry wanted to be just as great as him, he wanted to make the man proud of him. He wanted to prove that the professor had not made a mistake by taking Harry under his wing. And he was going to gain the man's approval, no matter what it was going to take.

Or so Harry told Dementia before going to bed, cheeks pink and his chest strangely warm and light. The purple spadehog had stared at him silently as he spoke to her, before snorting cutely and nuzzling the mount of Venus of his palm.

He understood it as her way of encouraging her. It made his lips stretch more widely than he thought was possible, hurting his cheeks and making the scabs on his lips crack, even as his body yield to sleep.


End file.
